Lone Star Legacy
by walkertxkitty
Summary: A modern day Gunsmoke setting. The descendants of Matt Dillon and Kitty Russell are brought together in search of answers to a mystery whose roots lie in Dodge City's history.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 – Alex Dillon**

The desert smells like rain.

From my comfortable perch in the city, I can romance the desert, but my ancestors lived there, ate from the desert, drank from it. I wouldn't know what to do, myself. I wonder. My mother used to climb our family tree, looking into our past and holding it up for me.

With my weak back and poor coordination, I'm no hero, Ma, I'm sorry. I know we used to be (heroes, that is) but this is now. All I do is punch information into a computer and crunch numbers. I look at data and make it tell me who did what to whom so that the real heroes can go out and catch the bad guy. No, it's not sexy, but I'm not sexy. I must not be, I'm still single.

And I'm no gunslinger. I leave that sort of thing for the guys in homicide and the Rangers. Me? I barely pass my quals each year with a standard sidearm and I failed marksmanship when I tried out for the Rangers because the carbine nearly knocked me on my ass. Hell, it dislocated my shoulder…twice. After that, they told me to stick to the labs. I'm a geek. The kind of heart in DPS call us squints; most of the other names they call us are unrepeatable in polite company.

I may be a geek but I'm also imaginative enough to wonder what it was like back then, before freeways and Indian casinos. Sometimes at night, away from the glow of screens and hum of hard drives, I sip whiskey and imagine I am camping in the high desert. I'm surrounded in my washout by scorpions I can't see and won't ever notice because they're so shy. The sky is huge and on the wind building and blowing dust, I can smell rain.

Then I wake up back in Dallas. It hums like any big city, possibly like New York (or so I've been told, never actually been there). This is a new West, one tamed by modern technology and artificial schedules which have nothing to do with the cycles of the season or the sun and moon. For a moment I think, this isn't really the West. Then I get up to make coffee and forget scorpions, the sky, and rain. I have too much else to do to be in love.

Time to go to work.

The traffic just about kills me every time. Dallas tries to be a metropolitan city but it's still a cow town at heart and the transit system hasn't quite caught up to the twenty-first century yet. They're working on it…and that's part of the problem. At least I no longer have to worry about suffocating in my own sweat while I sit in gridlock.

About two years ago, I got rid of a car that had served me since college. I drove it to Tennessee when I went to study forensic science at Knoxville where it snows in winter and where the smell of cow shit from the agriculture school often wafted across our lovely three acres of death.

When I graduated and got this job with the Texas Department of Public Safety, I drove it to Dallas. The Corolla was ailing by then --- paint peeling, radio didn't work, transmission out of whack, and the AC had long since given up the ghost --- but it got me to work and back. In the winter it wasn't a big deal but in the summer I drove around as little as I could get away with. I used to drive to work shirtless and then get dressed in the public bathroom so I could retreat into the AC without looking like someone who spent an hour in traffic stewing in his own sweat.

My little Toyota died on me so I turned my decent salary around and bought this hybrid. It has air conditioning and a radio. My car's not sexy, but it gets amazing gas mileage when I have to drive half way across the godforsaken Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. I have to do that a lot. Most folk think squints spend all their time in the lab, but you never know when you're going to be called out to a scene. Sometimes the evidence is too fragile to be transported without damaging or destroying it. Other times, homicide wants a fresh eye.

That's where things stand– I have working AC, a cat, an apartment that doesn't embarrass me, and a good-paying job with the Texas Department of Public Safety, which also pays for my health insurance in the rare cases I need a doctor. Of all the things I ever feel grateful for, I enjoy good health (except the damned back, of course; Ma says that's the Marshal's fault, as he was a tall man and prone to disc slippage). My Ma puts it down to hearty pioneer stock and ancestors who tamed the West – people who didn't have time to fall ill, though I'm pretty sure they did. Look at Doc Holiday. Of course, he still kicked ass right and left, even when he was dying.

Now I'm in charge of my own little department, forensic toxicology. We analyze blood samples and other types of evidence. I can read blood types, drug content, and a lot else. My department is in the same building as Texas Rangers Company B and of course we're all lumped under the Department of Public Safety but I'm still not really a cop. My Ma's dead disappointed. She lives in a world where gunslingers rule the West, Sheriffs mosey up the street and just shoot the bad guys, and right and wrong are very obvious. I wish it was that easy. I would sometimes like to be a kid again, trying to outdraw Wyatt Earp on some TV show with my plastic six-shooter. I ought to admit, I still try to outdraw the gunslingers with my DPS issue piece and my television. I haven't beat them…yet.

All this is running through my mind as I sip my coffee and look over my day's tasks. The usual blood and urine samples, some crime scene stuff, scraps of cloth, and even a baggie filled with leaves. Harris is looking eagerly at my work, ready to question me about the evidence. Those little bags with the "EVIDENCE" strips draw him like the proverbial moth to a flame. He's had some law school and how he ended up here, I don't know --- an internship to fulfill some sort of class requirement, I guess. He's got a serious jones for serial killers.

"Whatcha got, Dillon?" My name's Alexander Dillon, but the custom is last names only. It makes me feel like I'm in boarding school.

"The usual, Harris. Whatever sludge the first secretary on hand can brew." I drop my half-empty cup in the trash. It really is sludge. I need to bring my own.

"Got some evidence there. D'you think it's from Fort Worth?"

"Why in hell would I think that?"

"You didn't hear about this job that went down? In one of the upscale neighborhoods. They found this old couple killed in their home, he was in bed, and she was out in the garden. No robbery or anything - just killed 'em." Harris prides himself on up to the minute knowledge of all suspected serial murders in the United States. I wonder what Harris' home looks like. I wonder if he'd cream his pants if I bought him a clown painting by John Wayne Gacy. He probably would.

"That's a shame, but I don't know where this is from. Hey man, I've got a lot on my plate today, I'll see you later, huh?" I slap him cordially on the arm and walk off. I want to like this guy, but he's too eager. It's creepy.

I start with the chemical forensics. I analyze blood samples, urine samples, test dried fluids found on upholstery, underwear, organic matter, you name it. I like my work, although "like" isn't a good word. I see the remnants of violent deaths, the flotsam washed up in the wake of horrible passions, and in an intellectual sense, I know what I handle relates to some human, someone like me who met with unbelievable pain and then with death. So I don't exactly like it, but it gives me great satisfaction. I do something good for others, even if they're already dead, but some people don't do anything except for themselves.

I put on some coffee of my own with a Bunsen burner and a knocked-together coffee maker my supervisor would freak out over. Misuse of government resources and all that jazz. But it gets me through the morning, and I can have a decent cup. I watch it perk while I prepare slides and get my wizard's brews of solvents and reagents going. I run this lab, and even with a host of interns and underlings, there are some things only I'm smart enough to do.

I am, I do, I think …. All about me so far. Let's talk about these leaves that I lied about. Yeah, they're from that crime scene out in Fort Worth. I talked to one of the guys in homicide and it seems this apparently harmless older couple were both shot execution-style in their home. I don't know what I'm looking for. I usually don't. Dried leaves and sticks. Scraps of carpet. Isolate blood or other body fluids and get a chemical profile. Really, what I'm trying to tell you is about these people, not me. I'm just the mouthpiece. Through me they find ways to speak from the grave. I've spoken to other forensics experts who feel the same. Our work is about them.

Recently, I heard a story about some fishermen down along the coast who found a murdered little girl adrift in one of those big Tupperware tubs you store sweaters in. While I look at the world with a realistic eye and I know people will do awful things to one another, things like that make me sick at my stomach. I suppose that's why I do what I do.

The same Ranger also told me the couple's adult daughter was starting up some night club in Austin – one of these deals where you can drink shots from between the breasts of some hot female bartender. It may prove worthwhile to do some investigation on my own and go see this place. Austin's a cool town anyway, and I like to go soak up some good music and cold beer.

Captain Marrin is still eating lunch when I knock on his door with the forensic report on those blood samples. He waves me in, mopping juice from a roast beef sandwich and I sit while he finishes off an e mail. Marrin is a Ranger, but he isn't such a prick like some of the others I'd had the misfortune of meeting. Finally, he is able to clear the decks for me.

"Here's what I got, but I want to know, what happened to the dog?"

Marrin looks at me like I have lobsters crawling out of my ears. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, a couple of these samples here, these..." I separate them out and push them across his desk. "They're canine, not human. That's a shame, but I've seen cases where a killer murdered the family pets along with the people. I was just wondering." I start to feel a bit weird about this, and add, "I like dogs."

"I like dogs, too, but there weren't any dogs at the scene. From what I've been able to find out, Mrs. Dupree was allergic. So, it's dog blood?" He bends over the report, screwing his forehead up in a knot.

"Not quite," I say, "It's canine. It could be a dog, a coyote, maybe a wolf, or even a fox. I'd have to run more tests to pin that down. For one thing, there's this protein profile..."

I stop as Merrin pulls out the case file on the Duprees. "Look, I'll show you. Shut the door."

It isn't often I got to see this sort of thing. What Merrin spread in front of me, nudging the pictures into place with his stumpy, dark fingers, is not a surprise but it was a shock. There lay the older couple, faces obscured with blood or turned from the camera. "The woman was found outside in her garden and the man in the basement. They think he was taken there from the bedroom before being killed." The bedroom photograph shows a still burning cigar and a book opened but unread. No dead dogs, I notice. The position of the bodies is odd. I had seen enough to know how people fell down when dead and this wasn't it.

"Why are they posed like that?"

"You noticed that, huh? You're right, they were arranged after they were dead. Look at this one, see how Mrs. Dupree has these flowers and bits of herbs and stuff sprinkled over her? He had the same thing stuffed into his mouth, all post mortem. There was also ash, associated with burning herbs, and prints of bare feet. Those are being worked up now."

"Smudging."

"Huh?"

"Smudging. You know, when you burn sage and stuff, I don't know what all the hell's in it. You burn it prior to ceremonies and to clear the air. It's a magical kind of thing. Crystals and shit." I say that last bit to cover up, thinking of my ex-girlfriend with all her Native American stuff, ninety percent baloney and ten percent authentic history. My Ma's interest in history had rubbed off, and while I didn't know a whole lot about Native traditions, I have developed a 'bullshit meter.'

"Huh. Yeah, I bet that's what that is. There's probably some significance to the poses, too. I'll get someone in to look this over, we need an expert. Good thinking, Dillon." He smiles briefly before getting back to work, and I know I am dismissed. I push my blood work near the case files to make sure it isn't lost and slip out, back to my lab and test tubes before he could think to ask me more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – Kathryn Dupree**

It wasn't going to be a good day.

I suspected as much when I was awakened hours early by droplets of water falling onto my face from a slowly growing seepage in the ceiling. I was absolutely certain of it when I looked out the French doors leading to the balcony and saw nothing but greyness. The sun ought to have been up by now but it wasn't visible through the cottony downpour which only Louisiana seemed able to generate. I'd moved to this apartment at the beginning of my junior semester; it's closer to the business district but not too far away from the LSU campus. Its location, however, was not its biggest selling point. I loved the house's Victorian colors and elaborate gingerbread decoration but its real attraction was freedom. The elderly woman who rented the rooms liked to check discretely on her renters from time to time but she didn't get nosy about it. Also, you couldn't beat the good Southern cooking, far above the drek LSU food services offered, served in the bright, quaintly furnished kitchen. My room was one of the few with a small kitchenette attached so I had the option of cooking for myself. I rarely exercised that advantage…at least, not since the last visit from the fire department. I can make a great cup of coffee and I'm a wizard at mixing drinks but anything else results in disaster. I suppose I could learn if I'd take the time, but I have better things to do.

Today, however, I would have traded it all for a roof that didn't leak. Last time it rained the landlady had apologized and promised she would ask her grandson to fix it during the dry season. Unfortunately, her grandson spent more time in jail than he did anywhere else. I suppose she might have asked one of her tenants to take care of it but this semester we're all girls and have not a lick of handiness between us. Shoot, I'm lucky to change the light bulb without electrocuting myself. Mama always said that my fascination with numbers and profits --- did I mention I'm a business major --- must have pushed out all other information clean out of my head, including common sense.

Rather than lay there getting wet, I dragged myself out of the quilts and then commenced moving the bed to the other side of the room. An ugly plastic Home Depot bucket from the kitchen served as a catchment for the dripping water. The pillows, of course, were soaked. I decided that if my pillows remained damp by evening, I could simply take them to the laundry down the street and toss them in the dryer; the blankets seemed to have withstood the deluge fairly well. I made the bed, grabbed my shower kit and towel, and headed for the bathroom to get cleaned up.

By the time I'd gotten dressed and made it downstairs, my landlady had breakfast cooking and several of the other tenants had gathered around the table chatting. "Good morning, Mrs. Kennedy," I said to the grey haired, rotund African American woman cooking pancakes on an old fashioned coal stove. "Any mail for me? I forgot to ask yesterday."

"The usual," Mrs. Kennedy responded as she served me a plateful of pancakes, country cured ham, and a bowl of grits. "It's over there on the telephone table in the hall if you want to take a look."

"I'll take care of it later." I wanted to enjoy my breakfast and I knew if I had to deal with this particular piece of mail, I'd lose my appetite. The notes had been coming for a little over a year now, typed on plain cardstock with an old fashioned typewriter and accompanied by dried flowers with sinister associations: nightshade, foxglove, and once a dried up ball of moss which Mrs. Kennedy informed me was most commonly used by Voudun and Santeria practitioners and was called Resurrection Flower. The messages inside were often Biblical but sometimes whoever it was would quote a line of Shakespeare or one of the Romantic poets. All of the fragments dealt with righteousness, vengeance, or violent death. The 'gifts' creeped me out enough to have a talk with the police, but my fellow tenants had convinced me that they were someone's idea of a prank. Well, I could do without the admirer but as long as I could think about it in that vein it didn't bother me too much. Besides, without a return address there wasn't much the cops could do.

"Nothin' from your aunt either," Mrs. Kennedy commented as she topped off my coffee cup. "Most peculiar."

The landlady was right about that. My Aunt Edwina Haggin usually sent me a care package with a long chatty letter chock full of advice (most of it unwanted and a lot of it outrageously incorrect but that's a Haggin for you) once a week. I hadn't had anything, not even a letter, from her in _two_ weeks.

I finished my coffee, put my dishes in the sink, and then decided I'd better deal with this latest "love note" from my secret admirer. On the telephone table rested a vase of black roses, all of them dead. The ubiquitous plain card was missing, however, and in its place was a florist's card. I opened it and read:

**"Sorry to hear of your impending loss. Don't spend too much time grieving. I'll see to it you join them soon enough."**

The message gave me chills; it felt like someone, somewhere, was walking across my grave. I was wondering if I ought to outright call Edwina in Dallas just to see if everything was all right when I heard a knock at the door. Curious, I peered around the corner and saw Mrs. Kennedy open it to reveal a tall, stone faced man in what could only be called cowboy attire. "Texas Ranger, by God!" she gasped.

The man in question neatly inserted himself into the foyer before my landlady could close the door on him. "I'm looking for Kathryn Dupree, ma'am," he said, presenting his credentials. "Does she live here?"

"I do," I said, coming forward. His manner irritated me; law enforcement or not, he shouldn't have forced his way in here. "What do you want with me?"

He didn't answer me directly but instead consulted a small spiral bound notebook. "You're the daughter of Max and Kitty Dupree, then." He read off their address in Highland Park and asked me to confirm it. I did so, dazed and confused. A feeling of dread ebbed over me as the bottom of my stomach seemed to drop out.

"I need a Xanax," I muttered.

The Texas Ranger tilted his head sharply in my direction. "You take drugs, Ms. Dupree?"

"It's a _prescription_," I stated primly, "for an anxiety disorder. I was on my way up to my room to take the morning dosage when you barged in here."

He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed about his poor behavior. "I'm sorry, Ms. Dupree. I'm Sergeant Porter, Texas Rangers Company B, and I'm here to deliver some unpleasant news. Your parents were murdered two nights ago. The nature of the crime suggests it was someone who knew them well. I have orders to escort you back in order to officially identify the bodies."

_Like hell you do,_ I thought. _You're here to figure out whether or not I killed them!_ He watched my reactions closely. I could feel the peripheral effects of an oncoming anxiety attack eating at me: the tingling and numbness in the hands, the feeling of dissociation…almost as though I were wrapped in cotton or staring at some alternate me from somewhere above myself while trying to pull the strings in order to make my body respond appropriately. My hearing flickered in and out; someone was trying to make me sit down on the stairs and put my head between my knees. The florist's card slipped through my deadened fingers.

"My…my parents are dead?" The voice sounded far away and fragile, not mine at all.

"I'm afraid so." Porter leaned forward into my peripheral vision. He picked up the card from where it had fallen to the carpet. "What's this?"

I struggled to respond. He'll probably put me in jail or the Alamo or whatever it is they do with criminals in Texas if I don't shape up and answer some of his questions. "It…it came in the mail this morning with the roses. Someone's idea of a joke," I suggested lamely.

"I don't think it's particularly funny, Ms. Dupree." He'd gotten a pair of protective gloves from somewhere and put them on. Now he held the card up to the light, examining it, before he stowed it away in an evidence bag. "It looks like a death threat to me. This happen often?"

"Off and on for almost a year now," I told him. The anxiety attack was passing; I leaned back against the stairs, propped my elbows on my knees, and rested my head in my hands. "I kept them all," I added helpfully.

Mrs. Kennedy returned from the kitchen with a glass of water. "Let the girl take her medication and then she can answer your questions, Ranger Porter," she informed him. Evidently she'd gone up the back stairs and gotten my pills for me. "Here ya go, Miss Kat," she said kindly.

I took them from her and swallowed them in one gulp. They wouldn't help with the current attack but they would at least ensure that I wouldn't fall apart or go crazy for the rest of the day. "Thanks, Mrs. K, I'm okay now. Could we go into the parlor where we have more privacy? I'd rather not discuss this where everyone can hear." The gals who shared tenancy with me are all dears but they can't resist gossiping. I didn't want my parents' murder --- or the fact that I was one of the suspects --- getting around.

Mrs. Kennedy led us into the parlor and then excused herself to prepare refreshments. Sergeant Porter and I were left staring at one another like two junk yard dogs about to square off. He broke eye contact first and studied the faded print on the Victorian carpet. I folded my arms across my chest and glared at him. "Well, let's get this over with. You want to know if I killed my parents?" He had the grace to wince at the bluntness of my question. "I'm a senior this year, business major. Any of my professors will be happy to confirm I've been in class for the last two days taking midterms."

"What about evenings? You could have caught a flight out and been back in time to take the exams." Porter's chin jutted out at a stubborn angle; I could tell he didn't relish being wrong about his pet theory.

"Know any students who have that kind of money?" I asked sarcastically.

"You're a Dupree," Porter countered. "Back in Dallas, the name is practically synonymous with money."

"I _earned_ what I have," I retorted, offended, "and that's not much. You're welcome to check my bank and credit records if you've got a warrant."

He scribbled something on his note pad. "I'll take you up on that."

I folded my arms across my chest, miffed. This guy _really_ rubbed me the wrong way; I thought Texas Rangers were supposed to be gallant gentleman, not redneck good ole boys. "I can also produce witnesses who will verify that I arrived home promptly after classes, studied in my room, and did not leave the house once I got here." Check mate, buddy. I'd watched enough _CSI_ and similar crime shows to know how this worked. There was no way he could prove otherwise since I had a solid alibi.

"You could have hired someone to kill them," he insisted. "There's a lot of money involved and you're the only heir."

I almost laughed in his face when he said that; I mean, how on earth could he utter such a cliché and _mean_ it? "You didn't do your homework, Ranger Porter. Any inheritance is contingent upon me finishing my degree and successfully establishing my own business. The majority of it is then designated for enrichment of that goal with a small living stipend." I could see the dollar signs growing in his eyes. Clearly he was hoping to pin the fabled "greedy heiress" motive on me and perhaps gain further advancement in his career as the one who solved the infamous Dupree murders. "There's also a clause in there specifically stating that the inheritance is null and void if I'm found guilty of _any_ criminal intent, including foul play. Mama was awfully big on the law." Porter really ought to have known this; after all, my mama had been organizing benefits for the Texas Rangers and their families for years now. Honestly, I didn't see the attraction if they were all like this guy.

He shifted positions and fiddled with the crease in his pants leg. "What was your relationship with your parents like? Did you get along well?"

The question invoked a flood of memories --- trips to Disney World and Knott's Berry Farm, summers spent camping or hiking in national parks, displays for Highland Park's Parade of Homes during the holiday season, the smiles on my parents' faces when I graduated high school at the top of my class, the satisfaction in their voices each time I phoned from LSU at the end of the semester to let them know I'd made the Dean's list. They'd never see me graduate now, would never know that my business plan was sound enough that I'd gotten a highly prestigious firm to back the costs of building and opening the place. I could feel the emotional storm clouds gathering and knew if I let the tears fall now, they'd never stop. Instead, I took a few deep breaths and then answered Sergeant Porter's question. "We were close but not particularly demonstrative." I shrugged. "Growing up, we did the usual family things and had the usual family disagreements. I knew they loved me and I suppose they knew I loved them."

Porter chewed thoughtfully on his pen and then wrote something else down. I could tell he wasn't completely satisfied with my answers but they were all I had to give him. My folks may not have been big on hugs and kisses --- they generally left that to Aunt Edwina --- but there are other ways to tell someone you love them. Finally, he closed his notebook and stood awkwardly. "I'll be by tomorrow at 9 AM to escort you back to Dallas. I'll see myself out."

That left me with nothing else to do but pack and grieve.

I finished my packing and then sat on the bed staring at the walls until Mrs. Kennedy brought up a cup of hot chocolate and told me I'd best get to bed. I thanked her, got undressed, and turned out the light but I can't honestly say I got any sleep. I probably could have taken one of the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed for use after anxiety attacks but Porter's comment about drug use stung. Sheer stubbornness, I suppose, but that's just the way I am sometimes. I shouldn't care so much about what people who don't really matter think, but I do.

Just before dawn I gave up on the charade of sleeping, took a shower, and got dressed. I was ready and waiting in the foyer when Sergeant Porter knocked on the door promptly at 9 AM. "You're ready to go?" he asked, taking my arm. What did he think I was going to do, make a last ditch attempt to flee? I eyed the car waiting outside; the sign on it proclaimed to be from an airport shuttle service.

"Uh-uh," I said, backpedaling. "You're not taking me on a plane. I don't fly."

He stopped my retreat with and iron hand on my arm. "Get in the car, Ms. Dupree," Sergeant Porter commanded, sighing in exasperation. I could tell he'd had his fill of me. Well, the feeling was mutual.

"I really can't," I said, desperate now and hoping some shred of humanity resided in that thick skull of his. "I've always been afraid to fly, even before 9-11."

Porter crossed his arms and got a look on his face resembling that of a bull about to stampede. "Do you get in the car or do I pick you up and carry you?" He would too, the bastard.

"I get airsick," I warned as we climbed into the back seat of the shuttle.

"We'll get something for it at the airport," he said unsympathetically.

Going through airport security proved an embarrassing nightmare. Porter, still holding firmly to my arm under the pretense of escort, presented his credentials at the security checkpoint. They waved _him _through after a minimal check. Me, however, they singled out for the "special" treatment. First they went through my single suitcase. After determining that my hair dryer, cosmetics, and unmentionables weren't after all weapons of mass destruction in disguise they handed me off to a female security officer in a separate room. I knew what was coming next.

"Sorry 'bout this, ma'am," she said with an apologetic shrug. "It's standard procedure for all prisoners. Please disrobe."

Prisoners? "I haven't been arrested!" I protested. "I'm flying to Dallas to identify the bodies, for God's sake."

"The orders presented were for an escort, ma'am. The more quickly you cooperate, the more quickly we can get you out of here and on that plane."

Standing there in my bra and panties while she took her time searching through my clothing, I had time to reflect on what had happened. The logical part of me must have realized that Porter was just doing his job and he must be good at it or he wouldn't be a Ranger. I was gratified that the city of Dallas so valued my parents' contributions to state and community that they'd assigned their finest to the case.

Unfortunately, the logic had been buried under an avalanche of grief, sorrow and irritation. I contemplated doing painful but anatomically impossible things to Sergeant Porter to pay him back for this humiliation and then decided that for once in my life I'd use the Dupree influence and demand that someone who at least had a human soul handle the investigation into my parents' murder. Sergeant Porter didn't fit the bill.

Finally, disheveled and nearly in tears, they returned me to his custody. Our seats were in the middle row and I was wedged between the Ranger and an overweight businessman. "What, no handcuffs?" I asked him bitterly.

"I'm doing you a favor," he responded. "Now sit tight until we land in Dallas."

The flight was every bit as bad as I expected and turbulent to boot. Four hours later, when we finally landed at DFW, Sergeant Porter was in need of a shoe shine and I was in dire need of a bath and new clothes. "Well, I _did_ warn you," I said meekly as he glared at me.

"Those were two hundred dollar shoes," he muttered in disgust. "They'll never be the same, even if I can get 'em clean."

His utter lack of sympathy for my condition was the last straw for me. I don't lose it often but when I do, boy-howdy what a mess! "At least I didn't mess up _your_ suit." A hiccup spoiled the ironic sarcasm I'd tried to inject into my tone and I sniffled, reduced nearly to tears by the state of my wardrobe of all things. What broke the dam, however, was the thought that I wouldn't want my parents seeing me like this coupled with the realization that they wouldn't care…because they couldn't care about anything any more; they're _dead_ and would never see me in _any_ state at all that didn't involve the afterlife. The tears I'd been holding back since I'd learned of their murders spilled down my cheeks. I sank into the nearest chair, heedless of the Texas Ranger tugging impatiently on my shirt sleeve, lowered my face into my hands, and wept.

"Aw, c'mon now, don't do that." He patted my shoulder awkwardly, abashed. People were probably staring at him and wondering what he'd done to me. I couldn't figure out why else he'd suddenly treat me halfway decently. Finally, not unkindly, he told me, "Let's get you cleaned up and then, if you're up to it, we'll go to headquarters." Sergeant Porter left me momentarily amid the furtive glances of pitying strangers while he spoke to one of the airline attendants. I never did hear what he told her, but whatever he said produced a change of clothes obtained from one of the shops on the mezzanine and the use of the attendants' lounge for a quick shower.

When I reappeared, Sergeant Porter's attitude had decidedly undergone a change for the better. His touch was solicitous rather than offensive as he guided me through the crowd to the baggage claim, picked up our bags, and then shuttled me off into a waiting squad car. As we got closer to Company B headquarters, he became more edgy. "This is no easy thing I'm asking of you, Ms. Dupree," he stated bluntly. "The bodies ain't in good condition and some of the things done to them are better left unmentioned."

I gave him a hard, skeptical stare. I could tell he'd love to mention those things in great detail in order to gauge a reaction from me. Well, maybe he'd let up once he'd had a chance to check my finances and the codicils concerning disposition of their estate in my folks' wills. "Let's just get this over with," I sighed and grabbed my clutch purse.

He took me down two flights of stairs into the complex's basement, down a dimly lit hallway with frosted glass doors labeled things like "Trace", "Cold Case", "Autopsy", and "Forensic Toxicology". It was through the last door Sergeant Porter took me, the one labeled "Morgue". It was cold down there and I shivered. Sergeant Porter glanced around casually and then hollered, "Karen, you down here?"

"Oh, for God's sake," I exploded. "Don't you have any respect for the dead?"

"It's not like they can hear me," he responded, obviously pleased with my discomfiture, "they're dead." He actually reached over as he said this and _tweaked_ one of the toe tags.

"You, sir, disgust me." I moved away from him, arms wrapped around myself for warmth, and wondered which of the sheet draped figures were what was left of my parents. It occurred to me too that Aunt Edwina could well be among the silent remains; these Texas Rangers wouldn't necessarily know about her connections to our family. Since I hadn't heard from her in so long, I feared whoever had done this might have killed her as well.

His eyes raked my body with obvious avarice as he smirked. "Well, babe, the feeling ain't mutual."

"Pig!"

"Bitch!"

I probably would have killed him had it not been for the sudden appearance of a petite --- and obviously living --- Navajo woman in a lab coat. "I heard someone call… am I interrupting anything?" she asked pointedly.

Sergeant Porter cleared his throat and instantly turned professional. "Karen, this is Ms. Dupree, the daughter. She's here to identify the bodies."

"They haven't been posted yet," the medical examiner responded. "I just finished preliminary processing and I haven't cleaned them up. I don't think this is necessary, Porter. Why put her through this when we already have positive ID?"

"She should see it for herself."

_Because you still think I did this, you bastard._ "Let me look at them," I requested. I was proud of myself for keeping my voice and expression dispassionate. I knew Porter would count that against me but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of witnessing an outburst. I'd had enough of them lately to last me.

"You don't have to do this, Ms. Dupree. It really isn't needed." The medical examiner's voice held compassion.

"_I _need to do this. Otherwise I won't be able to accept that it happened."

Porter was writing every word I said in that notebook of his. I was seized with an irrational desire to grab it and cram it down his throat.

"All right." Karen --- wasn't that what he'd called her? I couldn't rightly remember --- pinned the Ranger with a glare so heated that if he'd been a moth he would have burst into flame. "Get lost, Porter. This is a private moment."

"No can do, Karen. I've got direct orders from the Captain by way of the Governor not to let her out of my sight. Here, let me do the honors…" With studied callousness, watching my reaction out of the corner of his eye, Sergeant Porter pulled the sheets off the bodies.

I gasped; I couldn't help myself. The things that had been done to the both of them…

"Mama," I whispered, approaching the steel slab on which they'd laid her out. Of the two, she appeared most normal save for the small hole in the forehead and the fact that most of the back of her skull was missing. Someone had closed her eyes but the expression on her face showed puzzled startlement. Her mouth was slightly open in a small round "O" of surprise. She still clutched a small bouquet of garden flowers in one hand.

The hands, I noticed, had once been bound with something which had left a braided pattern bruised into her wrists. _She would have hated that_. Mama had always been a true Southern belle and prided herself on keeping complexion and hands smooth as silk. A lady, she'd often informed me, didn't allow the wind and sun to dry and brown her skin. It was a lesson I never learned since, unlike most redheads, I didn't burn but freckled instead. As a child I'd liked the feel of that dry prairie wind far too much; as an adult, I'd learned to love the green wetness of Louisiana summer days.

Mama's hair, once bright copper like mine, had faded with the years but had never developed the yellowish brittleness which often plagued redheads in their later years. It had been braided for yard work and I found it curious that some of the same flowers from the bouquet had been twined in her hair. I could never recall Mama wearing flowers in her braid, even when she was younger. _Maybe the medical examiner did that to help cover up the mess_. Someone had also neatly arranged the plaits to partially cover that horrible exit wound. I stroked a strand which had fallen across her closed eyes and then bent down to, for the last time, kiss her. "I'm so sorry, Mama," I whispered.

I didn't want to look at Daddy's body at all. His murderer had done some truly terrible things to him, whether before or after the execution I lacked the expertise to tell and was afraid to ask. I hoped, for his sake, that the damage inflicted had been post mortem. Like Mama, he'd been shot in the head but whoever had done it either had terrible aim or wanted him to suffer; even I could tell that the shot would have incapacitated but not killed. His face was forever frozen the rictus of a scream; someone had cut his tongue out and gouged out his eyes. My eyes widened in horror as I realized that the murderer had taken the scalp. My father's curly iron grey hair was completely missing and so, for that matter, was the skin from the soles of his feet. "I always knew something like this might happen, Daddy," I murmured to him. "Our family has pissed a lot of people off down the generations. I had hoped" and I choked back a sob "that I would be wrong."

Suddenly Sergeant Porter was uncomfortably close to me. He leaned in, his manner intimidating. If I hadn't already been mad clear though at him, it might have worked.

"What do you know about this, Ms. Dupree?"

"Since my family is rather prominent, it ought to be a matter of public record," I informed him frostily. "While we've been rather generous to the community at large, there are always a few feathers which will get ruffled. I think you'll likely find the Dupree name mentioned in recent eminent domain cases and I know some of the urban renewal efforts my mother liked to fund have been hotly opposed."

The Texas Ranger leaned in even further, pinning me against the steel table. If he kept it up, I was going to end up sprawled across my Daddy's body. "Did you have something to apologize for, Ms. Dupree?"

The look on my face must have warned him that the next blow would be to the groin if he didn't back off because he moved off to a safe distance. I deliberately took a step backward and trod on his instep in order to make my point. "Yeah," I responded heatedly, "yeah, I do. I'm sorry that the oh-so-revered Texas Rangers have fallen so far that they have to include the likes of you! I'm sorry for the disrespectful, incompetent manner in which their deaths are being handled." My voice had risen with each word and taken on a shrill hysterical pitch but I didn't care any more. "Someone brutally _killed_ them. While you're farting around down here trying to pin this on me, the real murderers are still out there."

As I strode unsteadily toward the door, I thought I heard the medical examiner call my name. "Ms. Dupree…"

"Where do you think you're going, missy?" Porter had moved quicker than I'd given him credit for; his considerable bulk now neatly blocked my escape. If I wanted to leave I was going to have to push past him and I had no doubt if I did, I'd find myself on the floor and in handcuffs with that fatuous oaf sitting on the small of my back.

"You want to know where I'm going?" I ground out. "First I'm going to have a word with your Captain and then I'm going to wire the Governor. When I'm done with that, I'll call a press conference. I intend to scream so loud about this injustice that they'll hear me in Austin!"

"Now you've done it, Porter," the medical examiner said, rolling her eyes in disgust. "We were told to extend utmost courtesy and to handle the Dupree case with kid gloves. You _don't_ want to know what will happen to your career if she carries out that threat. Honestly, I wouldn't blame the poor thing for doing so either. You're an embarrassment to that badge."

The sound of approaching footsteps and rustling papers cascading to the floor broke our little tableau. I noticed him primarily because he was what my mother liked to call a tall glass of water, all long legs and broad shoulders. Currently he was bending over and muttering curses under his breath. "Oh, hey, Karen," he said. It seemed to register slowly with him that he had interrupted something. "I…ah…I'll just drop these off and get those other results from you later. Everything okay here?"

"I'll take care of it, Dillon," she responded. "We'll talk later. Lunch?"

"Sure," the man responded and then retreated back down the hallway.

The medical examiner picked up the files the young man had left and gently touched my arm. "I have to take these findings up to Captain Marrin," she said. "Give me a minute to find a visitor's pass and you can accompany me." She sighed as she rummaged through her desk. "Porter, you might as come along. You're going to have some explaining to do."

Their Captain turned out to be a dark complexioned Hispanic man --- one of the few in the force, I remembered, and the only Hispanic ever to serve as a company captain. I recalled having seen him at various private functions held in Mama and Daddy's Highland Park home when I was younger. He'd seemed a decent sort back then and I devoutly hoped becoming a Texas Ranger hadn't turned him into an asshole. His dark stumpy fingers were surprisingly gentle as he took my hand and bestowed a chivalric kiss on it. "You've grown into a fine young lady," he commented. "I am pleased to see you again, Miss Dupree, but powerful sorry about the circumstances. My condolences." He briefly turned his attention to the medical examiner. "Are those the preliminary findings for this case? You can leave them on my desk. Finish up and then give me a complete report later."

"Thank you," I whispered at her as she left the Captain's office.

"Not a problem," she mouthed back, "good luck!"

Captain Marrin turned his attention back to me. "I understand that you're not completely satisfied with the way the case is being handled. What can I do to help smooth things over?"

"I want someone who actually has half a brain and some shred of decency left," I snapped and found myself blurting out the rough treatment I'd received ever since Ranger Porter showed up on my doorstep. That already seemed as though it had happened decades ago; I hadn't realized how truly tired I was and how emotionally overwrought.

"I see." Captain Marrin steepled his fingers and glared intently at Sergeant Porter, who seemed to visibly deflate under that stony gaze. "Anything you want to add to that, Porter?"

"I stand by my actions. Have you been behind that desk so long that you've forgotten first year criminology? Statistics prove that in murders like these, the culprit is nearly always a relative. I'm not gonna treat her any differently just because she has the Dupree name attached to her…assets."

"I understand you have to look at all possibilities," I began stridently, "but what I don't understand is why it has to be done in the crassest manner possible." I turned a sickeningly sweet sarcastic smile on the hapless Porter. "Honey, at least apply some lube before you screw a gal over. We complain less."

"Enough!" Captain Marrin didn't quite yell at me, but he'd been a family friend since before I was born and knew exactly what tone of voice would shut me up. "Miss Dupree, in spite of his…er…less sterling qualities, I assure you Sergeant Porter is competent and the man most qualified to handle this case. I am, however, willing to assign someone to work with him since he apparently lacks the social prowess needed in delicate situations. Did you have anyone in mind, Miss Dupree?"

My eyes caught a motion outside the office and I saw the same young man I'd noticed earlier in the morgue. Just now he was conversing with the medical examiner and something she'd said had caused him to laugh. He looked less awkward and more sure of himself when he relaxed but the way he held himself told me he wasn't used to being around women…or at least that he wasn't used to having them interested in him. In my business, noticing such things was second nature. I found him oddly appealing and anyone would be better than Porter at this point. "Him," I said, pointing at the young man. "Assign him to the case."

"Dillon?" Porter scoffed. "The kid's not even a Ranger or a proper cop. He's a squint."

"I want him," I repeated. "Can you do that, Captain Marrin?"

"Well," he temporized, "our lab technicians normally don't do field work for cases, but" he held up a hand to stop my protests "Dillon's a little different. I've seen the scores on his applications to the Rangers; if he could've passed his firearm quals he'd already _be_ a Ranger. I'm sure the Governor might see fit to issue a special commission."

"If you'd see to that, I'd be grateful," I responded, relieved that this whole mess would be resolved soon. I grabbed my purse and rose to leave. "If you'll excuse me, I'm very tired. It's been a long, trying day and I'd like to get some rest."

"We'll still need to conduct a formal interview," Porter began but Captain Marrin cut him short.

"Tomorrow will be soon enough. Where will you be staying, Miss Dupree?"

I hadn't given that any thought. Ordinarily, when I was in town or on a break, I stayed in my parents' home. After all, I technically still lived there and I had the keys. "I was going to stay at my parents' home," I said, "but I don't suppose that will be possible now."

"You didn't mention you had the keys," Porter said coldly.

"Of course I do," I said. "I go to school in Baton Rouge, I don't live there."

Again the Captain interceded on my behalf. "I've made arrangements for you to stay at the Hilton for now. Porter, I want you to escort her there. I should have that commission on my desk early tomorrow morning. Report back here and hunt up Dillon so you can present it to him. He's to sit in on all interrogations and interviews and he's to be present any time you deal with Miss Dupree. Have I made myself clear?"

"You have," Sergeant Porter responded but it was clear he didn't like it. He made a grand chivalric gesture toward the door. "Shall we go, Ms. Dupree?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – Alex Dillon**

"Rowwwr. Rowwwr. Mreow?"

"Yeah, Mojo. Let the human wake up, okay?" My cat is insisting on his breakfast, while I roll out of bed before dawn wanting my coffee. Mojo rubs against my ankles and does his best to trip me as I stumble around my tiny kitchen filling the coffee maker and opening a can of something nasty-smelling for my feline friend. He sets to it with a will and I inhale the lovely aroma of brewing coffee. I'd managed to find a grocery store that stocked Community brand, an addiction I'd developed visiting my friend Karl at the engineering school at LSU. Honestly, I think outside of Louisiana they have no clue how to make coffee. Most of it is hot water with an attitude problem.

Mojo is happy now and sits on the table cleaning himself. I don't care if he got on the table or counters. I was the only one who ate here so I didn't care if there was cat hair in my food. I sip the potent black brew, naked, no cream or sugar, and finally achieve something like wakefulness. A dream was nagging at my mind, and I wanted it to go away.

_I was in a dim, dusty place. I couldn't see well and I was afraid. I floundered around and finally found a person, hoping to find some way to light and air. Instead I put my hand into soft feathers and leather then touched warm skin. I searched for a face, groping like a blind man, and felt a bird's head. Whatever it was had a cruel beak like a curved sword and smelled strongly of carrion. A huge predator had taken me in its embrace. "Mine," it whispered. "You are both mine. No other payment will do."_

I woke up half expecting to find a giant raptor in the bed with me.

"Stupid brain. Knock that crap off." I poke my temple for emphasis and turn my thoughts toward today. Captain Merrin wanted to know what species of canine that blood was from and I also had some workups to do from a car shooting, getting samples from the leather seats and analyzing them for dope.

I mentioned that my Ma likes to climb our family tree. She insists we're descended from a famous lawman, and we do have a history of going into the police. She was thrilled that I did but a bit disappointed when I chose forensics and became a pencil pusher and keyboard poker instead of a gunslinger. I'm not Wyatt Earp, by any stretch. And maybe it's the Wild West somewhere, but here it's just Dallas here. The usual. So much damn gangster stuff with the kids who think they're big-time. They usually wind up dead and I end up running their fluids to see what they were high on.

I'm getting dressed and smoothing my hair down when someone knocks on my door. Heck, no one knocks on my door except the pizza guy or my landlord, and it's five-thirty! I figure it's a lost guest of some other resident here in the building, so I open it and I'm face-to-face with a Ranger. Good gravy, this day isn't starting off well.

"Alexander Dillon?"

"Yeah. That's me."

"I'm Sergeant Porter, Texas Rangers." He thrust the papers he's carrying and a leather badge case at me as if they're covered with something nasty. "You've been inducted via special commission into the Rangers. Meet me at headquarters at nine sharp." A sardonic grin tweaked his face. "And wear something besides your underwear, kid."

Not exactly how I planned it --- everyone knew special Texas Rangers were generally political appointees --- but I finally achieved my dream. "Hey, Mojo, I'm a Texas Ranger!" The cat pauses in his grooming, blinks at me through slitted green eyes, and then returns to licking his privates. So much for making an impression.

When I get to headquarters, I barely have time to assign the lab work waiting for me --- none of it having to do with the Dupree case, of course; that was too sensitive for anyone but me to handle --- to an ecstatic Harris before Detective Porter yanks me upstairs. He wants me to sit in on an interview with the Duprees' daughter.

The first thing I think when I see Kathryn Dupree is…what a good looking woman! Wow --- long copper hair, a nice body under an expensive suit, and an attractive face, though the eyes are red rimmed and her make-up is smeared from crying. I'd been told Porter had her down in storage yesterday, where my friend Karen holds court with the dead and sometimes deigns to eat lunch with me. Karen had told me yesterday at lunch, coldly furious if you'll excuse the pun, about Porter's disrespect for the grieving daughter. What a prick!

"You're from Austin, aren't you? It's nice down there, I go a lot to the clubs." I don't want to launch right into the murder, and Porter's made it clear, special commission to the contrary, that he's got me here as a favor.

"I'm a Dallas native," she corrects me, "currently going to school at LSU in Baton Rouge. I'm a business major and my graduation project will be opening a club myself. I haven't decided on a location yet, but Austin's one of the prospects. I used to go down there on spring break. We liked the Freaky Lynx and the Kettle of Fish." She sucks up some snot and attempts a watery smile. I find it endearing. Normally I try to keep my distance with the surviving family members but there's…something…there between us already. It's a connection. Maybe that's why Captain Marrin wanted me in on this one.

"I know the Kettle of Fish, I've seen a lot of bands there. We even saw the Wild Magnolias once. My friends and I..."

Now that I've put her at ease, I get a note pad ready, as Porter already has. He's looking impatient. "Wild Magnolias? Out of New Orleans? Ah, I missed it, I love the Indian tribes and bands." Her smile is genuine this time and I feel like we can start.

"Did you live in New Orleans?" Sergeant Porter asks.

"Yes, for a while when I was small. We had a house on St. Charles and Washington. I went to a Catholic school in the Quarter. As a teen, I snuck out to see local rock acts, when my older sister wasn't taking me to them."

Porter looks interested and I laugh. She finally grins, flashing teeth at us. She said, "I saw Bob Dillon one night. No one will believe, but I know who I saw. It's amazing who turns up in New Orleans."

"Not any more." Porter cuts her off. "So, who else do you know? Anyone who might hate your parents? What happened to your older sister?" He checks his notes. "I don't see anything here about her." She seizes and looks angry. God, I'd not gone to Ranger School or whatever these guys do, but I know not to light into a victim like that. I sense Porter was already offended enough by the apparent need for my presence so I say nothing to him. Besides, I don't want him to take it out on her any more than he's already done.

"Miss Dupree," I interrupt. "would it be possible for us to interview your sister as well? It often helps the investigation if we have two sources so that we can cross reference them and check anyone suspicious who comes up in both interviews."

Porter looks like I pissed in his coffee but she relaxes again.

"Not unless you want to go to New Orleans and hold a séance," she replied sadly. "My parents had us both late in life but Marcie was still fifteen years older than me. When we returned to Dallas, she stayed in New Orleans. We lost her in Katrina."

"We'll be double checking that, if you don't mind." Just what the hell is wrong with Porter anyway? You _don't_ talk to a victim like that and you _definitely_ don't talk to a Dupree like that unless you want to spend the rest of your career processing traffic violations.

Kathryn Dupree stiffens. "Actually, I most certainly _do_ mind. How about letting the dead stay buried and focusing on finding my parents' murderer?" she demanded icily. The fire in her eyes ought to have turned Sergeant Porter to ashes. I find myself wondering what it might be like to talk to her in a personal setting and wondering if her eyes reflect the pleasanter emotions as readily. Whoops! I'd better curtail that line of thought before I embarrass myself. Concentrate, Dillon, concentrate.

I feel it's time to intervene. Hell, I'd been given the special Ranger commission for a reason; might as well use it. "I think Ms. Dupree might be tired," I said. "She's had a hard couple of days. Could we continue this tomorrow?"

She rewards me with a grateful smile. God, I could bask forever in the light of that smile. I tap my temple again. _Seriously, brain, knock that crap off, would you?_ "I'd be grateful if we could do that, Rangers Porter and Dillon. I…I haven't had a chance to do so much as catch my breath yet." She looks like a puppy who expects to be kicked.

Porter stands, signaling that the interview is over. "I'll contact you if I have any further questions, Ms. Dupree." He stalks out of the room without looking back.

"Come on," I said to her, offering my arm, "I'll escort you back to the hotel so you can get some rest."

The hand Kathryn Dupree places on my arm is slender, soft, and manicured. I notice she wears a small amethyst in a simple gold setting on that hand. "Wait a moment, Ranger Dillon. Do you…do you know what might have happened to my Aunt Edwina? Was she…is she gone too? No one's said anything about her and I haven't heard from her in a while."

Her question just about drops me in my tracks. She's already lost her parents and no one bothered telling her about her godmother? I grit my teeth; I was going to have some dandy things to say to Captain Marrin about Porter's handling of this case but right now the important thing is to make her feel better…and I want to see that smile again. "You mean, Edwina Haggen?" She nods. "Don't worry," I said, "she's safe. We convinced her to stay in a safe house in case the perpetrators decide to go after the rest of the family." I don't mention that's also the primary reason why yours truly would be escorting her anywhere she chooses to go. No reason to spook her further. "I can take you to see her later, if you like."

To my embarrassed pleasure, she throws her arms around my neck and hugs me. She's close enough that I can smell her perfume, something delicately floral but with a musky note to it. Heck, she's close enough that I'm suddenly just a little too aware of her other assets as well. "Thank you, Ranger Dillon! It means a lot to me." She returns her hand to my arm and laughs for the first time since I'd met her. It has a melodic, cultured sound. "You've simply _got_ to tell me how you convinced her to do that. Aunt Edwina isn't one to hide and she's stubborn as the day is long."

"You can ask her yourself. I could take you there now, if you'd like."

"I'd like that, if it wouldn't put you out too much."

I laugh as I walk her out to my truck, open the door on the passenger's side, and help her climb inside. "Ms. Dupree, it's my pleasure."

"Don't call me that, Ranger Dillon," she said as she fastens her seatbelt. "Ms. Dupree is…was…my mother. My friends call me Kat."

I feel idiotically pleased that she seems to consider me among her friends, even if it's just common courtesy. "All right…Kat, but if I'm going to do that, you call me Dillon."

She arches an eyebrow at me. "No first name?"

"Well," I say as I stick the key in the ignition and start the vehicle, "It's Alexander or Alex but we don't typically do first names around here."

"Alex Dillon." I like the way my name sounds in her mouth. "It ought to belong to one of those heroes of the Old West," she decides.

"It did, once upon a time," I tell her as I turn onto the beltway. "There's a passle of 'em in my family tree."

Her finger lightly traces my forearm, causing the hairs to stand on end. I thank my lucky stars I decided to wear long sleeves today and wonder if she's intentionally flirting with me. "But you don't wear a gun."

"Open the glove compartment." She hesitates and I encourage her, "Go ahead, open it." I already know what she'll find there: my "real" firearm of choice, the one I wear for my personal protection when I have to. It's an antique black powder Colt .45 Peacemaker, its ivory handle worn to a soft yellow from constant handling. Rangers can qualify on any weapon they can fire and this one, which supposedly belonged to the aforementioned famous US marshal, was the one I used. Squints, on the other hand, are only allowed to use department issue…and we're encouraged to keep them under lock and key unless specifically told to carry them.

I explain this to her and she smiles coyly. "Well, Dillon, since you're now officially a Ranger, you can wear it for all the world to see."

Danged if she isn't right. Porter's gonna shit bricks when he sees that.

The traffic gets heavy and I have to concentrate on my driving so I can get us to the safe house in one piece. I tune the radio to a jazz station, figuring since she likes the club scene she'll appreciate it. "If that doesn't suit you, feel free to find a station you can live with," I tell her.

She seems pleased with my selection, however, and turns her attention to my pick-up. "This is a hybrid?" she asks, noting the goofy green leaf logo the automotive industry likes to use on these things. "I didn't know they made hybrid pick-ups."

"It's new this year. GMC's the first American company to begin producing them."

The conversation lags as I try to avoid having us become one with the guard rail or any number of rush hour hazards. When next I am able to glance over at her, the poor thing has fallen asleep with her head on my shoulder. It takes me about an hour to cross the metroplex and another half an hour to locate the place, which is a farmhouse out in Parker County. Kat wakes as I park the pick-up in the gravel driveway.

"This is it?" she asks, looking around. We use this place because its primary advantage, aside from being so far away from anything else, is that it cannot be easily approached without someone seeing what's going on. It's a typical turn-of-the-century farmhouse surrounded by livestock fence and pasture. Not a bad place to hide out, if you ask me. "It's nice."

"We aim to please, ma'am." I hop out of the truck, slap my Stetson on my head, and help her down. "I'll walk you up to the front door and then I imagine you and your godmother will be wanting some time alone."

"What will you be doing, Dillon?"

I shrug. "My orders are to protect you and your aunt. I imagine while you two are getting reacquainted I can find some serious mischief to occupy me on the front porch." Truth be told, it's been a long day and I am tired. I thought I could probably fulfill my duty from a prone position in the old porch swing. As Kat knocks on the front door and I hear her godmother's enthusiastic welcome I stretch out and, settling the Stetson over my eyes, try to catch forty winks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – Kathryn Dupree**

The newly commissioned Ranger Dillon is a real cutie as well as a gentleman.

The nightclub business is traditionally a man's world. I'm trying to change that with a new approach and a sound business plan. If I can get it off the ground, my night club will celebrate women instead of objectifying them. I've dealt with a lot of men in my chosen profession and most of them --- professors, benefactors, investors, and clients --- tend to view women in general as a disposable commodity. When the commodity in question has the Dupree name attached, it can get downright ugly.

When I was younger, I got burned a lot by trusting too much. Someone always wanted something and when he got it, the boy in question would drop me as though I were tainted goods…which, I suppose, I was in a way. Now that I'm older and smarter, I've become an expert at reading their body language, enough that I can beat them at their own game. In business circles, I'm known as an aggressive manipulator and an ice queen. That's fine with me; they'll either do business straight as colleagues or they won't get my business at all. I don't sell myself to anyone for any reason.

That's probably one of the reasons why I can't stand Sergeant Porter. He seems to expect that sort of behavior. I don't know what he has against women or high society, but it bugs me. Alex seems able to work with him well enough, though how he does it I'll never know.

Someone taught this boy beautiful manners. Ranger Dillon treated me as though I were a lady, even after finding out about my line of work. More than that, he reacted as though I were a normal person. Even if he'd been a green recruit --- and he couldn't be, he didn't act like one --- he had to have known about the Dupree reputation. The majority of people familiar with our family's contributions to the community either treated me with the distant courtesy reserved for a visiting dignitary or with that avid curiosity usually directed at celebrities. It was nice to be just Kathryn Dupree for a change.

We talked for a little while but I must have fallen asleep during the drive to the safe house. When I woke up, my head was on his shoulder and he had stopped the truck in front of a farm house shaded by venerable cottonwoods. I tried to imagine Aunt Edwina volunteering to confine herself to such a place and decided that it must have a heck of a library…or a really good kitchen. The only two things more important to my godmother than socializing are books and cooking.

"This is it?" I asked, taking a good look around. I guess I've been watching too much television lately; when Ranger Dillon mentioned a safe house, I was expecting a crumbling apartment complete with single unshielded light bulb and peeling wallpaper. I noticed it was fenced for livestock and wondered if there were horses in the barn. I hadn't in quite a while, but I did love riding. "It's nice."

"We aim to please, ma'am." I watched him, with the slow deliberate movements of one used to being too tall to fit in most spaces, unfold those long legs from the driver's side. He wore his faded jeans as though he'd been born in them and the Stetson atop those unruly black curls gave him an appealing sort of rakishness. His hand in mine, as he helped me down, was lean and strong but with a delicate touch I wouldn't have expected of a man. Whatever work he did with his hands must have required a fine touch and he'd taken good care of them. I found myself wondering what it would feel like to have that fine touch directed toward other activities and hoped he didn't notice the blush.

It was, however, the eyes which he turned on me with apparent ignorance of their effect on the female gender that caused my heart to skip a beat. I'd never seen eyes quite that color, dark blue and shadowy like a summer thunderstorm on the prairie. He could school his face into a neutral expression but those eyes would betray him every time. They showed every thought, every emotion. Right now those eyes expressed curiosity and a desire to help. He cleared his throat and finally said, "I'll walk you up to the front door and then I imagine you and your godmother will be wanting some time alone."

I didn't bother telling him that Aunt Edwina not only enjoyed company but would likely try to fling us together if he came inside. No point in tempting the fates, especially with a Haggen. To hear Aunt Edwina talk --- and she talked _a lot_ --- Haggens could do just about anything and matchmaking was a specialty. The poor boy would be too well mannered to tell her to leave off and I wanted to spare him the embarrassment…and keep him to myself as long as possible. I let him escort me up to the front steps and then asked, "What will you be doing, Dillon?"

He really _is_ new at this. It was plain from the expression on his face that he hadn't thought about what should happen next. He recovered his composure quickly, though, and flashed me a naughty little boy smile. With a shrug of those broad shoulders he said, "My orders are to protect you and your aunt. I imagine while you two are getting reacquainted I can find some serious mischief to occupy me on the front porch."

I hesitated before knocking on the door. I guess I was afraid that this would either be a cruel joke or part of the nightmare and I'd find out Aunt Edwina was dead after all. Her delighted screech, which probably could have been heard in four counties, disabused me of that notion right away.

Even if you've met a Haggen before, it can be a bit overwhelming. Heck, it can be a bit overwhelming if you _have_ met a Haggen. Originating in the Flint Hills of Kansas --- though Aunt Edwina loudly denies any connection to "them hill Haggens" --- they're of the sturdy pioneer stock which helped build this country. My Aunt Edwina is probably only five foot two or so in her stockings but what she lacks in height she makes up for in authority…and volume. When she's emotional about something, the world knows it.

"My land, girl," she exclaimed, "let me get a good look at you!" I found myself all but crushed in her embrace as she drew me to her. For the first time since this whole horrible ordeal began, I felt like I was no longer alone in the world. Aunt Edwina might not have been kin by blood, but she _was_ kin. There had been Haggens side by side with the Duprees as far back in the family tree as anyone cared to remember. The grief I'd been holding back since leaving Baton Rouge broke through in earnest.

I allowed her to lead me to the couch and we both sat down. I don't know how long it was before the storm of tears ended but she simply sat there rocking me and stroking back my hair like she had done when I was younger. The rings on her fingers caught in my hair as she stroked it but I didn't care. "Aunt Edwina," I managed, "I thought I'd lost you too!"

"I'm right here, child. No need to carry on so." From her ample bosom, where she always kept it, she pulled forth a delicately scented embroidered handkerchief and handed it to me. I've always hated blowing my nose on those things --- it seemed like a travesty --- but Aunt Edwina always grinned and told me, "Kat, that's what they're for. Ain't nothin' that says because a thing is used for the cruder functions of life that a gal can't have something beautiful."

"Do you…did they tell you what happened to them? My parents?" I asked.

Her weathered face relaxed into lines of sorrow and her hazel eyes grew bright with unshed tears. "I know. I was the one what discovered 'em layin' there. Who knows but I might have joined 'em if I hadn't come home late from the library." I rested my head on her shoulder and she said softly, "We got hard times ahead, honey, and you're gonna have to be a strong 'un but we'll get through it." A trace of her usual earthy humor returned along with the ghost of a grin as she declared, "With Haggen help, you can't go wrong. Now how 'bout I fix us a good hot meal? Never heard of nothin' home cooked vittles couldn't make better." Her eyes crinkled with mischief. "Why don't you freshen up and then go wake up that handsome Ranger you come in with? Boy looks like he could use a few good meals under his belt." Clucking disapprovingly, she headed for the kitchen.

I decided that a quick shower and a change of clothing would do wonders for my mood. I wanted the comfort of well worn jeans and loose sweaters, not the close confines of a business suit. The Rangers had obviously designed this place for long term occupation; the large bathroom offered a generous selection of scented soaps and the spray jets were a pure luxury. I spent more time in the shower than I'd intended but when I came out I at least felt ready to face whatever else the world decided to throw at me.

Getting dressed again presented a problem, however. When I had packed the single bag Sergeant Porter had allowed me, I hadn't been paying much attention or had still been in shock. I had plenty of underwear and bras, a nightgown…and not much else. A single pair of jeans --- an older pair, which barely fit --- lay folded in the bottom alongside a sapphire colored silk top with spaghetti straps. Those might be all right for clubbing after class in Baton Rouge, but they definitely weren't suitable for Dallas in winter. I hadn't packed a jacket either. Damn that Sergeant Porter for riling me so! Having nothing else to wear, I changed into the clothing I'd brought. The idea of facing Ranger Dillon in this outfit made me uncomfortable. It also occurred to me that I'd also have to ask him to take me into Dallas to do some shopping. I don't blush easily but I could feel my cheeks heating up at the thought.

"If he's as well mannered as he seems to be," said Aunt Edwina, appearing in the doorway to my bedroom, "he'll behave." I've been told before that my poker face needs work, that anyone who looks can easily read what I'm thinking and feeling. With Haggens, it's impossible to hide anything. According to Aunt Edwina, a Haggen can read body language and intent just as well as they once read trail sign. Besides, it wouldn't have taken a genius to look at the pitiful contents of my bag spread on the bed and figure out what I was worried about. "Supper's ready, dear. You can ask him after the poor thing's had something to eat. I swear, if'n even a slight breeze were to come up, he'd blow away."

I quickly braided my hair up into a single plait and tried to ignore the cold as I made my way downstairs. The farm house may have had its charm, but it was also drafty. I found myself trying not to shiver as I went out onto the front porch and pondered how best to wake up the Ranger without him taking my head off. It wasn't that I thought Ranger Dillon was dangerous --- I rather doubted, with that sweet little boy face, that he had a mean bone in his body --- but I recognized that law enforcement types rely on instincts and deeply ingrained training to keep them alive. Walking up and tickling him, fun as the idea might be, seemed a good way to get hurt.

He must have heard me coming --- either that or he hadn't really been asleep --- because he sat up, adjusted his hat and then flashed me that engaging smile. "Evening, Miss Kat. You look…better."

From anyone else, it would have sounded like a cheesy pick-up line and a sleazy one at that. I studied his face and found nothing but earnestness and concern there. I smiled at him halfheartedly and explained, "Sergeant Porter didn't give me much time to think about what I might need."

"I'll take you into Dallas tomorrow so you can get what you need. You must be cold." Before I could stop him, Ranger Dillon had shrugged out of his windbreaker and draped it around my shoulders. "That should help. Did you need anything else, Miss Kat?"

I've had relationships before, really I have, and I've interacted with plenty of men. Why, then, did this mild mannered baby computer geek leave me speechless and fumbling like a teen with her first crush? What was I…oh, yeah. "Aunt Edwina has supper ready. She'd like you to join us."

Ranger Dillon gallantly offered his arm to me. "Well, why didn't you say so?" His dark blue eyes were full of laughter. "I'm starving!"

My speculations about the kitchen must have been accurate; Aunt Edwina had outdone herself this time. She had laid out an impressive spread of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, green beans with new potatoes, and yeast rolls. In deference to my more sensible preferences, she'd also scared up a small bowl of salad greens somewhere. Her face was bright red from the effort of cooking over the stove (I hadn't ventured into the kitchen but I suspected from the sweet scent of wood smoke that it might be an old wood burner) and strands of her silvering hair had come loose from the French knot to hang around her face in wet ringlets. The twinkle in her eyes and the smile wreathing her weathered face told me, however, that she'd greatly enjoyed the effort.

"Sit down, young feller," she greeted Ranger Dillon, "and help yerself. We Haggens don't stand on ceremony, so we don't."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded as he pulled one of the ladder backed chairs away from table for me. "After you, Miss Kat."

Now why would a simple gentlemanly gesture embarrass me? I felt the heat creeping up into my cheeks again and dutifully applied myself to the generous plateful Aunt Edwina had set before me. That boy sure can eat! I don't think I've ever seen anyone put away that much food and so obviously enjoy it. Most men who eat like that make a horribly unattractive mess, but Ranger Dillon's every movement was neat and efficient. In fact, he ate in the manner of one used to taking meals wherever and whenever he could…and of needing to be careful of the materials around which he ate. That made sense to me, since he'd mentioned working in a lab.

"Is there something wrong with my table manners?"

"What?" I dropped my fork, startled, and it hit the china with a clatter before bouncing onto the floor. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you're staring at him, girl," Aunt Edwina cackled, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes with a corner of her apron. "Let the man eat in peace."

My face felt like it must have matched my hair. Honestly, _my_ manners were the ones which needed correcting. I must have made him feel like a moron and I didn't really have a good explanation for my bad behavior. "Oops, sorry about that. I guess I'm tired."

No wonder the boy doesn't carry a gun; he could disarm anyone with that charming lop-sided smile. We both reached for the fork at the same time, our fingertips just brushing. His face turned redder than my hair and, distracted, he bumped his head against the table bottom. "No harm done, I've got a hard head," he said, handing me the fork.

"You didn't properly introduce yerself, young feller," Aunt Edwina said. "You got a name, boy?"

He finished chewing and took a drink from his glass before he answered. "I apologize, ma'am, I ought to have introduced myself sooner. I'm Alex Dillon."

Uh-oh. I knew that look on Aunt Edwina's face. It meant she was mentally cataloging family anecdotes and histories as she tried to track down a piece of information. The end result was usually a long winded story involving several generations of Haggens and an unlikely event with a comical outcome. When I was younger, I'd found those stories endlessly entertaining but as an adult, particularly when told to a near stranger, I felt a growing sense of embarrassment. Ranger Dillon was going to think the entire Dupree family had lost its marbles.

This time, however, it was different. Momentarily --- so briefly I wasn't certain I'd even seen it --- the good humor went out of her expression and a kind of sorrowful moistness filled her eyes. She looked more closely at Ranger Dillon as if memorizing his physical traits and comparing him to something in her mind. Then she sighed and said, "Dillon, eh? Not a particularly common name 'round these parts but a well known one."

"My aunt's a genealogist," I felt obliged to explain. "She works at the library and helps folk sort through the archives when they're trying to research their family trees."

Ranger Dillon smiled and nodded his head, as though he were used to such conversations. "You might have run into my Ma a time or two then, ma'am. She sure likes climbing the family tree and spends a lot of time going through those archives."

"Mayhap I have," responded Aunt Edwina as she began clearing the table. She came back from the kitchen with a homemade apple pie fresh from the oven. "The name, though, puts me in mind of a lawman my great Uncle Festus worked for up in Kansas territory. Name of Matt Dillon."

"That's my great, great granddaddy," Ranger Dillon replied as he dug into the pie. Did I mention that boy puts away food like it's going out of style? The tips of his ears were pink with either pride or embarrassment. "My Ma likes to talk about him a lot." He sighed and the veneer of confident lawman dropped away to reveal an awkward and insecure young man. "It's a mighty big shadow to stand in," he added quietly. "I try not to think about it too much."

Aunt Edwina patted his arm affectionately, almost tenderly. "You do all right, Alex. Bein' a Ranger ain't no small thing. Your family had its roots in Dodge City too, Kat," she told me.

"Really?" That's the first I'd ever heard about this. My Mama always said that the Duprees were an old, old New Orleans family.

"I wonder," said Ranger Dillon, "if the answer to who murdered your parents lies in the past. This could be an old grudge which the perpetrator has only now had the opportunity to act upon."

"It's possible," Aunt Edwina admitted after she'd thought about it a while. "The Duprees made their money on land grants and mineral rights. A lot of hard feelin's there goin' way back."

"I told him about the current eminent domain disputes," I said. "It's more likely one of those radical groups than anyone from…Dodge, you said?" I vaguely remembered from my high school history courses that it had been most widely known for its role in processing cattle, a role it retained to this day. Not much to recommend it if you ask me.

"I'll check out both leads tomorrow when we go back into Dallas to get you some clothing," Ranger Dillon replied, barely suppressing a yawn. "It's getting late and I'd need my laptop to research all the possibilities and there's no Internet access out here." He stood up and headed for the door. "Sergeant Porter should be here to relieve me shortly. I'll be back in the morning."

I felt a sense of encroaching panic at even the mention of Sergeant Porter's name. "No!" I practically shouted. Both my aunt and the Ranger stared at me as if I'd gone crazy. I had the feeling I might if I had to be left in Sergeant Porter's company without someone to run interference. "Please," I pleaded, "don't leave me alone with him."

Ranger Dillon crossed the room in three strides. His arms went around me, his large strong hands gently gripping my shoulders. "Don't fret, Miss Kat," he said softly, "if it means that much to you, I'll stay."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 – Alex Dillon**

Dinner is a pleasant affair, the best I've had in a while. I don't get much opportunity to eat something which didn't come out of a can or the microwave and what little cooking I do, if it doesn't involve a grill or the Bunsen burner, is mediocre at best. Kat's aunt, it turns out, is a librarian who specializes in genealogy. She knows a lot about the families who settled in this area and about the region in general. Several of the items she mentions seem like fairly good leads which need pursued. I can't do that out here since the place is too far out of the way to be wired for Internet access.

"I'll check out both leads tomorrow when we go back into Dallas to get you some clothing," I say. I'm not looking forward to the drive back to my apartment; it's a long way back and I'm very tired. My work day normally ends around six or so and this time of night I'd be relaxing in front of the television with a beer in one hand and Mojo purring away on my lap while we watch one of the vintage Westerns on AMC. I check my watch; it's nearly ten in the evening, which means it will be after midnight before I get home and I need to be back here by six. I make my farewells and head for the door. "Sergeant Porter should be here to relieve me shortly. I'll be back in the morning."

Things go right to hell in a hand basket the moment I mention Sergeant Porter's name. Kat reacts as if I'd just told her she would be spending the night with the Baton Rouge Serial Killer. "No! Please don't leave me alone with him," she pleads.

Someday I should get to the bottom of what's between her and Porter. I've worked with him a few times on other cases. His strict by-the-book approach gets on my nerves, but he's always been that way. Porter just doesn't like people, even himself.

I can see that Kat has reached the end of her ability to cope with the situation. In fact, she looks like she just might collapse. Almost before I can think about it, I find myself crossing the room to support her. She folds against my chest, crying as though her heart will break.

Her aunt hovers in the background uncertainly. "My poor little Kit-Kat, this is so unlike her," she worries.

"I'd imagine it's been a long, troubling journey for her," I say. Actually, I'm wondering how she's managed to hold it together _this_ long. Any other woman would have fallen apart long ago. I try first to transfer Kat to her aunt's arms and then to get her to sit back down. Failing either of those, I scoop her into my arms, carry her over to the couch, and sit down. It figures; first time in a while I've gotten a pretty girl in my arms and I'm helpless.

"She takes Xanax," Mrs. Haggen offers tentatively.

"Go get it," I command.

"I…I haven't got any wi-with m-me. Sergeant P-Porter m-made m-me leave m-most of it behind and airport security c-confiscated the r-rest."

"He took you through as a _prisoner_?" Damn it. I'm going to tear Porter a new one the next time I see him. I know what those orders said and Captain Merrin ordered protective escort, not custody. No wonder she's a mess!

"Yeah. Yeah, he did." The panic attack seems to have run its course, but she doesn't let go. She cuddles into me, one hand twined through the curls on the back of my head and idly stroking them. It feels good to have her there in my arms, touching me…and that's a problem.

"Don't worry about it, Miss Kat," I tell her. "We can get the company surgeon to write a new prescription when we go into Dallas tomorrow." I risk a look at her face. Those sea blue eyes are half closed and a small, relaxed smile tugs at her lips. I get the distinct impression that she likes being in my arms, or that she at least feels safe there. It's a humbling feeling to know someone like her trusts me that much. "Come on," I say, "let's get you to bed. Where's her room?" I ask Mrs. Haggen.

"First door on the left in the upstairs hallway," she tells me. "I'll show you."

I follow her up the stairs. Kat's asleep by the time I deposit her on the bed. There's an old afghan draped over the kick plate of the brass bedstead and I cover her with that. "You kin go now," Mrs. Haggen says. "I'll take care of her now." It's a clear suggestion to get lost.

"Sleep well, Miss Kat," I say, turning down the lights. "Good night, Mrs. Haggen. I think I'll check the perimeter before I turn in."

She nods, her attention focused on her niece as she unbraids the girl's hair and starts brushing it out. "I'll make up a bed on the back porch for you." Mrs. Haggen measures me up and down with her eyes. A trace of earthy humor colors her voice. "I'd offer you the day bed but I reckon you're gonna be a mite too tall for that, son."

"I reckon you're right, ma'am," I say as I duck out. When I get back downstairs, I stop at the pick-up and get the Peacemaker out of the glove compartment. I feel a lot better having it with me; just because approaching the farmhouse without being seen would be foolish, that doesn't mean some fool won't try it. My mind keeps shifting back to the gruesome photographs and ritualized aspects of the murder. There's a dangerous undercurrent running through this case; I just haven't had time yet to fit the pieces together.

I also need to sort out these weird feelings I have. We are _not_ supposed to get emotionally involved with people connected with our cases. I don't know what to make of Kathryn Dupree. I'm a scientist; I don't believe in reincarnation or soul mates or any of that other New Age crap, but I can't come up with a logical explanation for the way we seem drawn to each other. She gets under my skin somehow, even though we've known each other less than twenty-four hours. My heart and mind are all mixed up, tripping over one another.

Someone is coming. The Colt is out of its holster and in my left hand with one smooth motion. I watch the headlights approach, keeping my sights trained on the vehicle, and then relax when I recognize Porter's beat up sedan. As I'm locking the safety on the Peacemaker and putting it back in its holster, Porter steps out of his car. His eyes go to the holstered Colt Peacemaker on its age darkened tooled leather gun belt. I'd been thinking about returning it to its place in the glove compartment of the pick-up. Porter's contemptuous stare decides me against it.

"What are you doing wearing that thing?" he demands. "Squints aren't supposed to be armed in the field. Put that thing away and leave the gun slinging to the _real_ law enforcement."

"I'm no longer a squint," I remind him. "It's my personal sidearm and I have no intention of walking around unarmed while on this assignment."

Porter gives a contemptuous snort. "You talk like a big man but when push comes to shove, you're just a government appointee." His glare is meant to intimidate. I match it, looking him right in the eye, and my jaw clenches. "I can see how an inexperienced lab rat like you might get the wool pulled over your eyes by the likes of her," Porter continues in a condescending tone which I suppose he intends to be fatherly. "This isn't a dangerous assignment, kid. She's guilty and it's only a matter of time before we prove it. Folk like her are smart, but they're not good enough to conceal the skeletons in their closets forever. I'm going to find every last one of them no matter whose cage I have to rattle."

"You're wrong. None of the evidence points in that direction."

"Evidence ain't everything, boy. When you've been doing the legwork as long as I have, you'll realize that. Now, take off that antiquated piece of crap and go home."

"I'm not going to do it, Porter. If you think this assignment is so routine, why don't you take off _your_ sidearm?" I know he's not going to do that and he knows he has no business asking me to do it either. "They've asked me to stay and so I'm going to stay. _Your_ job might be solving this crime but _my_ job is to protect them…including from you." Half remembered conversations about an incident which happened before I joined DPS, something involving one of the influential families in Dallas and a cover-up, flicker through my brain but there's no time to sort them out.

He doesn't like what I've said to him at all. I can tell from the tight expression on his face that I've hit a nerve. Porter shucks off his sports jacket and rolls up his sleeves. "You impudent little snot! You think because you have a special commission you can ever hope to be a _real_ Ranger? I'll clean your clock…."

This isn't really a smart move on his part. Porter outweighs me by at least sixty pounds but he doesn't have my reach or my height. I'll be able to block any punches he throws at me as I deliver my own. Even so, I'd rather not fight him. It's not professional and I've always prided myself on solving conflicts with words, not fists. I put my hands up, just in case he decides to fight anyway, and say, "Now, Porter, you don't want to do this…."

"The hell I don't!" He rushes at me, swinging wildly. I easily duck away from the haymaker and take a few steps back. I don't want him to get close enough to grapple with me; if Porter does that, he'll have the advantage.

"Porter, I don't want to fight you…." The next swing is more controlled and he comes within inches of hitting me in the face. It does knock my hat off my head. I can't afford to keep backpedaling because if I allow him any further openings, the next blow might land. "But you're giving me no choice!"

The next time Porter comes at me I catch the blow, stopping him cold, and use the momentum to lay him out flat. He's not hurt, but the air has been knocked out of him. I back off to let him catch his breath and cool down. That's when he sweeps my legs out from under me. Next thing I know, Porter's straddling my chest and choking the living daylights out of me.

Oxygen is getting scarce. My vision fades out and I'm starting to think Porter might actually kill me when suddenly he's not there any more. I hear the sound of something solid connecting with his bulk and feel the wind of its passing as I'm lying there gulping air into my starved lungs. I determine it's Mrs. Haggen who has come to my rescue when I hear the sound of more blows landing followed by an indignant screech, "For shame, Sergeant Porter, a big man like you pickin' on a young'un like that. You've 'bout killed 'im, so you have! You gonna stay off'n 'im or do I take my broom to yer scruffy hide again?"

I can see now, though it will be a while before I can breathe without wheezing. If I were feeling better, I'd have laughed because Mrs. Haggen is standing over Porter with both the broken ends of a broom in her hands and it looks like she's fixing to light into him again at any moment. Porter, on the other hand, looks thoroughly cowed. His face is ashen, his breathing ragged, and his hands are shaking. I think he realizes just how close he came to killing me for something which wasn't even worth a fight in the first place. "Leave off, Mrs. Haggen," Porter says, putting a hand up to fend off the broom. "I won't touch 'im again. You all right, Alex?"

He's never called me anything but 'squint' or other similar insults. I recognize it for what it is --- a peace offering and an admission of equality. "I…I'll live." That's just barely true. If Captain Merrin sees the bruises, we're both dead meat. Time for the bandana to make a fashion comeback, I guess. "You?"

Porter stands up, offers me a hand. He's grinning sheepishly, like a boy who's just come from the woodshed but taken his licks without a whimper. "I'll do," he says wryly. "Come on, let's go inside and get cleaned up."

Mrs. Haggen nods in satisfaction and casts aside the broom pieces. "Yes, let's get you fellas fixed up. That eye of yourn needs a raw steak on it, Sergeant, and if I'm not mistaken the boy's got some busted ribs."

Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Haggen digs around in the bottom of the icebox until she finds a suitable piece of meat. "You put that there on yer eye, Sergeant, and no one will ever know you've been in a scuffle." Her keen hazel eyes rake over me, taking note of my wheezing and the way I can't help clutching my side. "Take your shirt off, Alex. I'm a-goin' to have a look at your ribs."

Getting that shirt off is an act of pure torture. Every time I move or twist the upper half of my torso, pain radiates up my right side and my breath catches. I will not pass out, I will _not_ pass out, I _will not_ pass out. The little stars are still dancing around in front of my eyes when Mrs. Haggen gently peels the shirt off my shoulders. There's a large angry looking bruise spreading across my ribcage. It must have happened when Porter dug his knees into me. "That's gonna smart for a while," Porter comments. "You sure you'll be okay for duty?"

I nod; even if I wasn't okay for duty --- which I probably wasn't --- I'd promised Kat I'd be here and Dillons don't break promises. Ma drilled that one into my head good and early until it was so much a part of my psychological make-up that I couldn't go against it if I'd wanted to.

"Not to worry, dearies," said Mrs. Haggen as she clucked and fussed over the injury. "We'll ice that for a while to take down the pain and then I'll tape 'em up. You'll almost good as new so long's you don't let Sergeant Porter get the jump on ya again." Damned if she didn't just pat him affectionately on the shoulder the way one might a mastiff!

Two aspirin and a roll of surgical tape later, the pain is at least tolerable and I take myself off to the makeshift bed on the back porch. While it may not be as comfortable as a mattress, the porch swing is indeed long enough to accommodate my height. Not many things are and the bed I have at home is one of my few indulgences. I had it hand crafted to my specifications so that I wouldn't ever have to worry about my legs hanging off the end of the bed. It was expensive but worth it.

I can't shake the feeling that Ma's fascination with genealogy might come in handy. I probably ought to drop in on her while we're running around the metroplex tomorrow. Sometimes I wish I'd paid more attention when Ma was talking about our ancestors. I just know some the answers I'm looking for are buried there, somewhere in the roots of the family tree.

I wake later than I'd intended, partially because Mojo isn't there to jump up and down on my chest demanding he be fed. I'd have had to kill him if he did because my ribs feel like a gorilla with a pick axe has been using them as a trampoline. I sit up carefully and immediately get hit with a fit of coughing. That hurts, but at least the lung is functional. I'd really like to avoid visiting the company surgeon on my own behalf if I can manage it.

Mrs. Haggen is in the kitchen, frying bacon and cooking pancakes in cast iron on the old wood stove. "There's a bottle of aspirin beside you plate and I've got some coffee poured," she says by way of greeting. "You've got time for a shower before breakfast is ready. It might loosen up them stiff muscles. You can use the guest bath in the hallway there."

One occasion, a court case will call for a forensic toxicology expert. Chances are good, when that happens, that I'll be sequestered for several days until the jury delivers its verdict. I learned after my first experience to keep a small duffle bag with toiletries and a few changes of clothing underneath the back seat. I walk out to the truck, grab it, and then dash down the hall for a quick shower.

By the time I've showered, shaved, and gotten myself presentable Kat has come down and is sitting at the breakfast table. She wears the same pair of jeans she'd had on yesterday but the tank top has been replaced with a simple purple sweat shirt with a roaring tiger and the letters "LSU" embossed in gold. She still looks tired but she seems better than she was last night.

"Good morning, Miss Kat," I say as I sit down. I try not to wince as I struggle with the top on the bottle of aspirin. I'm not very successful because Kat gently takes it from my hands and opens it for me.

"There you go, Ranger Dillon." She looks intently at me and frowns. "Are you feeling poorly?"

"Just a muscle strain," I lie. No need to worry her further by telling her that Porter and I got into it last night. "Happens sometimes when I don't sleep in my own bed." I force a chuckle and then wish I hadn't; it hurts a lot. "One of the hazards of being so tall, I guess."

"Hmm," she says noncommittally as she spoons up some scrambled eggs, "and did the porch swing try to strangle you as well?"

I forgot the damned bandana! "You could say that." That's not exactly a lie, since Porter and I did bump into the _front _porch swing during our altercation. I thought it might be responsible for some of the bruises which had materialized overnight across my back. I can't resist teasing her just a bit and my mouth quirks in a mischievous smile. "I reckon it knows who's boss now."

"That so?" Kat reaches across the table and touches the side of my face with a fingertip. I hadn't known it was bruised until she did so. She's smiling now, like a young girl with a secret. "I'd hate to see the other gu--- er, piece of furniture then!"

"That'll do, you two!" Mrs. Haggen admonishes, shaking a spatula in our direction. "Finish up yer breakfast and get on out of here so I can clear the table and do the dishes." She doesn't have to tell me twice; as usual, I'm starving. I have no idea where it all goes either because I always seem to be hungry but I never put on weight. It's an embarrassment.

Mrs. Haggen refuses Kat's offer to take care of the dishes and ushers us both out the door. While Kat heads down to the corrals to look at the horses, I take a moment to call in two more units, just to be safe. Porter might only be asleep in one of the downstairs bedrooms but if he feels as bad as I do, he's not going to be much use as protection. It couldn't hurt to have some fresh officers keeping an eye on the place.

When I've finished my call, I put my Stetson on and follow Kat down to the corrals. She's standing there talking softly to a big buckskin gelding with one white sock on his front foreleg. I watch those long slender hands straightening the forelock of his dark, shaggy mane and admire their deftness. She's obviously handled horses before and knows what they like. "He's such a beauty," Kat says. "What's his name?"

"His name's Buck," I tell her. "He's my horse. We keep them on hand for use in cases which require tracking through the back country." There are still places in this day and age where a car can't go but a man on a horse can follow…and unfortunately, the criminals seem to know about them all. "You ready to head into Dallas?"

She gives Buck a last pat, nods, and hooks an arm through mine. "Lead the way, Cowboy."

I help her into my pick-up and we head back toward the metroplex. By default, the truck's radio is set to The WOLF, which plays country music. As luck would have it, the station is playing that stupid Toby Keith song:

"_I'll bet you've never heard ole Marshal Dillon say,_

'_Miss Kitty, have you ever thought of running away,_

_Settling down, would you marry me_

_If I asked you twice and begged you pretty please?'_

_She'd have said 'yes' in a New York minute;_

_They never tied the knot,_

_His heart wasn't in it._

_He just stole a kiss as he rode away;_

_He never hung his hat up at Kitty's place."_

I scowl and dial in the jazz station I selected for Kat yesterday. She looks at me, a puzzled look on her face, and asks, "Don't you like country music?"

"Oh, I like it just fine," I answer, feeling somewhat foolish. "I just don't care for that particular song, that's all." Marshal Dillon's romantic…history… is a sore spot with me. As far as I know, no one has ever actually asked _us_ --- his living descendants --- about it. Fact is, we don't really know what happened so how could any of those song or script writers?

I'm relieved when Kat doesn't choose to pursue the conversation. She stares out the window for a moment, frowning at the route markers, and then asks, "Are you _sure_ you're all right? We just missed the off ramp which leads to Ranger Headquarters."

"I've got something which needs taken care of first," I explain as we head toward my apartment complex, "and I want you to meet my better half." Kat seems a little put out by that last bit of information and I smother a grin. Perhaps it's because her face is so transparent when it comes to her emotions, but I can't help teasing her.

My apartment complex is nothing special, a block of buildings tucked neatly next to a golf course and an office complex just off one of the main avenues. I live on the first floor in a studio apartment which faces out on to a small lawn. At the south end of the building stands the fenced in swimming pool and hot tub, both of which are heated and in use year round.

I ease the truck into my assigned parking place next to the laundry facilities, open Kat's door, and then the two of us follow the sidewalk to the door of my apartment. As I slide the key into the deadbolt, I can hear a frantic scrabbling accompanied by dire sounding muttering. "C'mon inside and get to know him while I fix his breakfast," I say to Kat, who is staring at me with a look of embarrassed confusion on her face. She follows me inside, lips pursed in disapproval, as she looks over the mess while I make my way to the utilitarian eat-in kitchen.

Mojo knows what day it is. He stands beside the refrigerator screaming his fool head off. I rummage around in the meat drawer until I find the appropriate containers. "For a shelter rescue, you're an awfully picky creature." Mojo sits waiting, the very picture of attention while I cut up parts of a chicken I'd never dream of eating. Fresh, too, right from a local butcher's shop. Hearts, liver, and gizzards --- it's like a horror flick for chickens. The chopping makes my side ache, but I'm almost used to it now and Mojo doesn't seem to mind how beat up I am. If I walked in carrying my head under my arm, he'd be happy so long as he was fed.

A hiss of displeasure indicates he's noticed we have a guest. I decide an introduction is in order before one of the two kills the other. "Look, you, we'll be taking a trip with the lady out there." I waved his food dish towards the living room. "You'd best get used to it, since you won't stay in a kennel. Her name's Kat so you two ought to get on famously. C'mon now." I push the door open and prop it while Kat looks up and gives me a nasty look to end all looks. I make a show of placing the dish of dead chicken guts on the floor near her feet and Mojo comes to it instantly.

She just looks at the big black cat, then me, with her mouth open. "Miss Kat," I wave my hand as best I can, "this is Mojo the cat. Mojo, this is Miss Katherine Dupree. She's called Kat. Probably one of your people, so be nice." Still chawing on some meat, he at least looks at her. Kat just stares at me like I'm insane. I'm used to that, too, but not what she says next.

"It's a friggin' bobcat!"

"No, actually bobcats have little nubbins for tails. Mojo here has a regular butt decoration." I tug lightly on his tail and he growls at me. I can't help but grin at Kat. She still looks like I just told her I have a pet tiger.

"But … he's huge!" She sits back on my futon, scooping up a pillow and hugging it. "That's the biggest damn cat I've ever seen!"

"Ah, he's still a baby, ain't ya, Mojo?" Actually, he is about three years old. I inherited his mama with the lab. She was too feral for anyone to do more than leave food out for her but I stole Mojo away from her when he was six weeks old. "This is who I had to make breakfast for, Kat. He'll have to come with me, and I thought you two ought to be acquainted. I tried to leave him with a couple I know, and they won't have him since they caught him licking their toddler."

"I can't believe … oh, never mind. You've got whatever that thing is eating. You must have coffee. Could you make us some?"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – Kathryn Dupree

Chapter 6 – Kathryn Dupree

I always wake up after a panic attack with a vague feeling of shame -- as though I'd done something wrong -- and a handful of cloudy memories. This time shouldn't have been any different…but it was. My memory was clear up to the point when Ranger Dillon mentioned going off duty and then it all went to pieces.

Dillon's too young to have been part of DPS when Porter did what he did, or tried to do, and none of those left to remember would have talked about it. That's one of the few advantages of belonging to a prominent family: if you want something swept under the carpet, it generally stays there. I can't remember whether or not I told Dillon that threats against our family weren't particularly unusual; it's happened before. That particular night, Sergeant Porter (only he wasn't a Ranger back then) had been assigned to watch the house. I was staying home -- I had finals the following week and needed to study -- but my parents, accompanied by another police unit, were attending a fundraiser at the Hyatt Regency in downtown Dallas. Who knows what would have happened if my parents hadn't come home early. I had already removed his arm from my shoulders at least once in the course of the evening and had retreated to another room, but he kept following me. He had me pinned to my bed when my parents walked in. As it was, Porter got away with a stolen kiss and a reprimand.

My anxiety attacks started shortly after that.

I remembered young Ranger Dillon's arms around me, how safe and secure it made me feel, the concern in those riveting blue eyes as he held me. No one had ever made me feel that way before…but then, most guys split shortly after they witnessed the first anxiety attack. I wondered if I was in love and then dismissed the idea as silly. I didn't believe in love at first sight or karmic fate, but I couldn't deny there seemed to be some sort of attraction between us. My heart and mind were all mixed up, tripping over one another.

After I'd showered, I dug through my limited wardrobe to see if, by chance, anything suitable for a cooler climate had made its way into my bag. I felt pleased with myself when I discovered, tucked into the side pocket, a forgotten LSU sweatshirt. I spent a few minutes wrestling my hair back into a single braid and then decided I was as presentable as I was going to get. The scent of frying bacon wafting up the stairs convinced me -- or my stomach anyway -- that breakfast was the first priority of the day.

My Aunt Edwina was standing in front of an enormous old wood stove frying bacon and cooking pancakes in a cast iron skillet. "Mornin', darlin'," she said without turning around. "Have a seat at the table, breakfast's almost ready."

As I sat down in one of the wicker bottomed ladder back chairs, Ranger Dillon came down and sat opposite me. "Good morning, Miss Kat," he said.

He greeted me politely enough, but I heard something odd in his voice. Pain darkened his eyes as he struggled to open the bottle of aspirin beside his plate. I'd seen my share of bar room brawls and their aftermath; it didn't take a whole lot of brains to figure out that Ranger Dillon had been in a dilly of a fight with someone.

I reached over, gently took the bottle from him, and handed it back to him opened. "There you go, Ranger Dillon." His hands shook as he rolled two pills out of the bottle and swallowed them dry. I studied his face, which had lost much of its color; he didn't look well. "Are you feeling poorly?" I asked, concerned.

The smile he gave me didn't quite mask the pain he was obviously still feeling. "Just a muscle strain," Ranger Dillon replied, "happens sometimes when I don't sleep in my own bed." He tried to laugh and then winced as if it hurt him. "One of the hazards of being so tall, I guess."

"Hmm," I said skeptically as I spooned some scrambled eggs onto my plate. The bruising on his throat, which I'm certain would have matched Porter's fingers, gave the lie to that silly statement about the porch swing giving him conniption fits. "And did the porch swing try to strangle you as well?"

The lawman's mask slipped back into place, covering any traces of discomfort, when he answered. "You could say that." He actually had the nerve to smirk at me. "I reckon it knows who's boss now."

I didn't like being lied to and Ranger Dillon was just no damned good at it. Something in his face or body language would give him away every time. "That so?" He suddenly looked alarmed and ashamed, but I'm the one who ought to have been ashamed. It was clear the poor boy really didn't feel right and here I was needling him for the pleasure of watching him squirm. _Knock it off, Kat. He's not one of your business associates or classmates. You've got no call to needle him like that._ Ranger Dillon seemed so honestly miserable that I was seized with a desire to comfort him instead. I reached out and gently stroked the bruise on the side of his face with my fingertips. I still couldn't resist teasing him lightly. "I'd hate to see the other gu--er, piece of furniture, then!" I said, smiling. _And if it's Porter you tangled with, I hope you gave as good as you got, Ranger Dillon._

Aunt Edwina, among her many Haggen talents, has the ability to appear as though she isn't paying attention to conversations when, in fact, she's actually hanging on to every word. Since she practically raised me, she also knew me better than I knew myself at times. Hearing the exchange, she gave me a sharp warning glance and shook the spatula at me. "That'll do, you two! Finish up yer breakfast and get on outa here so I can clear the table and do the dishes." When she let that Haggen hill accent creep back into her speech, I knew I'd better stop whatever I was doing before she got _really_ riled up. I flashed Ranger Dillon a smile, mouthed "sorry" in his direction, and applied myself to my breakfast.

This time, I watched him eat more covertly. I didn't want to make Ranger Dillon uncomfortable, but I was fascinated by the amount of food he put away. How he stayed so fit while eating that much, I couldn't fathom. All I had to do was _look_ at a muffin and it added five pounds straight to my hips. He didn't wolf his food down, either, and seemed to really appreciate good cooking.

When I'd finished eating, I gathered the plates and took them back to the kitchen. Aunt Edwina already had a sink full of hot water and soap suds waiting. As I began scraping the plates, she snatched the one I'd been working on right out of my hand. "You go on, darlin'," she said kindly. "I'll take care of these. You and that young Ranger have more important things to attend to."

"Will you be joining us for lunch?" I asked. "Ranger Dillon said we'd be meeting his mother down at the Stockyards in Fort Worth."

She looked up from her dishwashing and smiled. "We'll be along. Porter's gonna take me to meet you when he wakes up."

Aunt Edwina sounded like she was actually looking forward to spending time with that moron. Sometimes I just didn't understand what Aunt Edwina saw in certain people. Shrugging, I told her, "I'm going to take a walk down to the corrals."

Thick grey clouds had gathered low on the horizon during the night. It seemed to me the wind held an extra sharpness reminiscent of snow. It didn't snow often in the Dallas metroplex, and it probably wouldn't today either but I found myself daydreaming about having a snowball fight in the yard with Ranger Dillon. I wondered if he knew how to ice skate and if he would be willing to go with me; I couldn't be certain but it seemed to me that Galleria Dallas had an indoor rink. _Stop that, he's not interested in you. He's just more polite about doing his job than Porter._ Still, the scheming part of my brain suggested since his job was to act as an escort, Ranger Dillon would certainly have to join me at the rink if that's what I wanted to do.

A few tired cottonwood leaves swirled around my feet as I made my way over to the corrals. I didn't see many horses out in the pasture and assumed most were kept in the barn. I didn't venture over there; hay always makes me sneeze. None of the three horses in the pasture took much notice of me. I knew immediately which one would be Ranger Dillon's if he kept a horse here; only one of them would have been large enough to accommodate those long legs of his. The animal in question, a rich buckskin which was almost sorrel save for the pretty black stockings and one white sock, had to have been at least sixteen hands tall. He had a thick, proudly arched neck and a long bicolor mane which fell messily between his ears.

Not really expecting the big horse to respond, I extended my hand over the fence and whistled. His ears perked and he swiveled his head in my direction. He neighed once, tossing his head and pawing at the ground, before ambling over and planting his muzzle squarely in my hand. "I don't have anything -- oh, wait…yes, I do!" Deep in the pocket of my jeans I found what I was looking for: several somewhat lint covered pieces of honey toffee. I always kept a few pieces around because the Xanax tended to dry out my mouth. Unfortunately, I never seemed to remember to take them out of my pockets before doing laundry. I unwrapped them and then laid them flat across my palm. He didn't look like the type to bite, but you never could tell with strange horses.

The big buckskin whiffled at me and then delicately lipped the treats from my hand. Emboldened, he drew closer and lowered his head to my shoulder. Thrilled, I ignored the horse snot being deposited on my sweatshirt and endeavored to scratch him under the jaw. He leaned heavily into me, the occasional snorts of pleasure tickling my ear. I dared to put my arms around his neck. The horse stiffened a bit but then relaxed, allowing the attention. Wishing I had a curry comb, I contented myself with drawing my fingers through the unruly mane and forelock in an attempt to make them lay more tidily.

"Oh, you gorgeous animal," I whispered, "I wonder if you'd let me ride?"

I was seriously contemplating climbing that fence and attempting to ride the big horse bareback when I had the distinct feeling someone was behind me. I wondered briefly if it had been such a smart idea to come out here alone when the distinctive scent of Ranger Dillon's cologne -- it reminded me of pine needles and prairie grass under the summer sun mingling with something which was uniquely male and uniquely him -- put me at ease. I wondered how long he'd been watching me and blushed. Remember, that's what he gets paid to do, girl. His eyes told me otherwise; they had a cloudy, far away look in them touched with longing. I sighed. _If the circumstances were different…._ I found myself wondering what it would be like to act on that look of longing. _Quit that, you're imagining things. It probably wasn't directed at you anyhow. _

None of these were safe subjects for conversation. I figured talking about the horse couldn't possibly lead to anything untoward. "He's a real beauty," I said. "What's his name?"

He smiled shyly at me and responded, "His name's Buck and he's my horse. We keep them on hand for use in cases which require tracking through the back country."

So, I had been correct when I assumed that Buck was his. "Well, he looks like he might be descended from one of the Kiger bands, with that thick neck of his and the way he arches it so." Buck nudged my shoulder, letting me know he didn't think much of my neglect, and I resumed my caresses.

Ranger Dillon gave a slight nod and pulled at the brim of his Stetson as though he'd just decided something or I'd passed some sort of test. "That's right, Buck's a Kiger. Say, he's taken a real shine to you. Buck doesn't like many people, including me sometimes. I guess you know your way around horses all right. You ready to head into Dallas?"

I gave Buck a last pat on the neck, silently promising him that I'd come back sometime with a more suitable treat, wiped my hands on my jeans, and linked my arm through Ranger Dillon's. "Lead the way, Cowboy."

His truck was parked in the driveway beside an old sedan that I guessed was Porter's; in fact, it looked like the same one he'd been driving when he was just a police officer. I sidled past it, suppressing a shiver. _If he'd gotten me into that car that night…._ Ranger Dillon must have noticed the shiver because he turned the heat on full blast once we got into the vehicle. As we drove away from the farm house, the nostalgic strains of a Toby Keith song issued from the radio:

"_I'll bet you've never heard ole Marshal Dillon say,_

'_Miss Kitty, have you ever thought of running away,_

_Settling down, would you marry me_

_If I asked you twice and begged you pretty please?'_

_She'd have said 'yes' in a New York minute;_

_They never tied the knot,_

_His heart wasn't in it._

_He just stole a kiss as he rode away;_

_He never hung his hat up at Kitty's place._"

Years ago, when the song writer had approached the Dupree family about writing that piece, we'd been hesitant. After all, none of us really knew what had happened between my great, great grandmother and her beau. The way our family told it, the marshal should have joined her in New Orleans but for some reason he never did and Kitty Russell died without ever seeing him again. Finally he'd convinced us that it was a story which needed told and we agreed to let him include a piece of our family history in his song. I liked what he'd done with it.

I didn't know whether he was just cranky because of his injuries or something about the song bothered him, but Ranger Dillon slammed the radio dial with unnecessary force, causing the station to slide out of tune with a screech of static, and then dialed in the jazz station we'd been listening to last night. "Don't you like country music?" I asked, wondering why on earth he'd have that station tuned in by default if he didn't like the genre.

"Oh, I like it just fine," he replied, his voice edgy, "I just don't care for that particular song, that's all."

I wanted to ask more questions, to find out just what it was he thought he knew about the situation that made him so angry, but the thunder clouds gathering in his eyes and the intent frown on his face told me the subject was closed. Instead, I looked out the window and counted mile markers. We'd already passed the exit we needed. _What is_ wrong _with him this morning?_ "Are you sure you're all right? We just missed the off ramp leading to Ranger Headquarters."

"I've got something which needs taken care of first," he told me tersely as we turn off into a residential area, "and I want you to meet my better half."

_His better half!_ Now why did I feel like someone had just ripped my heart out and handed it to me? We barely knew each other; it shouldn't matter to me that he had a girlfriend or a wife. I told myself I was just bothered that I'd read him wrong; I prided myself on being able to assess people accurately because it was part of my profession. He hadn't acted as though he were in a relationship!

The apartment complex he finally turned into didn't look like anything special: row after row of mid-sized apartment buildings built around community courtyards. He parked his truck in a parking space next to the laundry room, walked around to my side of the vehicle, and then opened the door with a flourish. I followed him up the walkway to a corner apartment on the ground floor. Ranger Dillon fumbled with the key in the deadbolt and finally got it to turn. The sound of scrabbling claws greeted me; something on the other side of that door desperately wanted out. I knew the state didn't pay their DPS people much and hoped he didn't have rats.

Ranger Dillon, apparently back in good humor, flashed me one of those devastatingly lopsided grins. "C'mon inside and get to know him while I fix his breakfast," he invited as he jostled the door open.

_Him? Ranger Dillon is….?!_ Well, it _did_ explain his touching awkwardness with me and the reason he appeared so ill at ease with the medical examiner the other day. I'm not particularly comfortable with alternative lifestyles, but I supposed I could put on my party manners and chat with…him…while Ranger Dillon did whatever he needed to do.

Leaving me to stand awkwardly in the middle of his living room, he immediately disappeared into the eat-in kitchen. The place is cluttered but not particularly messy; if I were a betting gal, I'd say he probably knew exactly what items were in which pile and kept a running inventory in his head. The bank of computer equipment which took up an entire wall didn't surprise me either, but it didn't look like anyone else lived here. In fact, the apartment resembled your typical bachelor pad. _How is that possible? He specifically mentioned that he wasn't single._ I decided I wouldn't disturb anything important by sitting on the futon couch, which was the one relatively uncluttered piece of furniture in the room. I made myself comfortable and waited.

The chopping sounds from the kitchen stopped and Ranger Dillon reappeared carrying a dish of what looked like some sort of animal offal. A big black blur twined around his ankles making noises which sounded like a seizing diesel engine. To my consternation, the Ranger placed that disgusting dish of parts at my feet. The big black thing -- it was a cat, I think -- swooped in and started noisily gobbling its meal.

"Miss Kat, this is Mojo the cat." Ranger Dillon seemed as proud as if he'd been introducing a son or daughter. He seemed to expect me and the cat to make nice with one another. Hadn't anyone told him that I hate cats? I really wanted a dog when I was a little girl but Mama was allergic so we had cats instead. They never seemed to like me and the feeling was mutual. "Mojo, this is Miss Katherine Dupree. She's called Kat. Probably one of your people, so be nice." I ought to have laughed at his lame joke, but I'd heard it all before. It only made me crankier. The cat regarded me with unblinking eyes and then returned to chewing on its disgusting meal.

"It's a friggin' bobcat!" I exclaimed. It had to be; none of our cats had ever needed to be fed raw meat.

"No," he said reasonably as though he couldn't understand my reaction, "actually bobcats have little nubbins for tails. Mojo here has a regular butt decoration." I thought Ranger Dillon would lose his hand if he so much as dared to come between that monster and its food, but he reached right down and yanked on its tail. The cat growled; it might have been an endearment or a warning. I couldn't tell, as I'm neither a cat nor a cat person.

"But … he's huge!" Mojo, as though to prove a point, daintily extended one claw and allowed it to rake ever so slightly against my ankle. I refrained from screaming but tucked my feet up under me and hugged one of couch pillows. "That's the biggest damn cat I've ever seen!"

The Ranger seemed to enjoy my discomfiture. I ought to have been angrier with him but supposed I deserved it after the teasing I'd given him this morning. "Ah, he's still a baby, ain't ya, Mojo?" Turning his attention back to me, Ranger Dillon explained, "This is who I had to make breakfast for, Kat."

So he really _is_ single and he isn't… I unexpectedly feel as though I've been given back something precious I'd thought lost forever.

"He'll have to come with me, and I thought you two ought to be acquainted," Dillon was saying. "I tried to leave him with a couple I know, and they won't have him since they caught him licking their toddler."

I believed it but the thought of making friends with this…creature…seemed daunting. I was certain the cat probably had its redeeming characteristics -- _Yeah, if you're a lonely bachelor_ -- but damned if I could think of a single one right now. I thought longingly of a cup of good New Orleans coffee with which to steady my nerves. Aunt Edwina made Haggen-style coffee, which meant it was usually only a few minutes short of getting up and walking away own its on. Ranger Dillon looked more like the type who used instant Folgers crystals but I figured anything was better than what I'd had to drink at breakfast.

"I can't believe … oh, never mind. You've got whatever that thing is eating. You must have coffee. Could you make us some?"

"Yeah…yeah, sure, I can do that." Ranger Dillon went back into the kitchen and, to my surprise, pulled down a tin of Community Coffee.

"Where'd you come by that?" I asked. "I would have sworn no one in the southwest knew what decent coffee was supposed to taste like."

"Got an engineer friend who went to LSU."

When the coffee had percolated, Ranger Dillon poured two cups and then handed one to me. He perched awkwardly on the edge of a stool at the breakfast bar and then waited for me to take the first sip. Usually I take mine with cream and a little sugar but I wasn't about to ask him for some. God only knew what he kept in that Hell's kitchen of his. I rolled it around in my mouth, savoring the flavor. Ranger Dillon really _did_ know how to make the coffee right. I swallowed and offered him an appreciative smile. "Thanks," I said. "This is actually pretty good."

"You're welcome," he responded, smiling shyly. "I can't abide bad coffee."

We drank our coffee and chatted about inconsequential details. The cat finished whatever it was Ranger Dillon had fed him and then deigned to buzz my legs. I casually dropped my hand to my side, within Mojo's reach, and was rewarded with a head butt…right before he raked his fangs across the top of my hand.

"Ouch!" I jerked my hand back up into my lap and glared at the cat. I could have sworn the damned thing winked at me before sauntering off into the rear of the apartment.

Ranger Dillon set his empty cup on the breakfast bar and crossed the room in two strides. "I'm sorry! Did Mojo draw blood?" he asked, concerned. "Let me see your hand." His long fingers traced delicately over the bleeding scratches. I found myself wishing he would kiss it and hoped he didn't notice the reddening of my cheeks.

"It's fine," I said, feeling foolish. "It hardly broke the skin. Just give me a band-aid and then we'll get out of here."

"No," he said seriously, "it's got to be properly cleaned up. Cat bites can get nasty." He led me to the kitchen sink, handed me a bar of anti-septic soap and instructed me to scrub out the wounds thoroughly. While I was doing that, he went back into the bathroom. I heard him rummaging through cupboards and swearing. He came back with a bottle of iodine, some gauze, and medical tape. "There," he said when he'd finished. "That should take care of it but you have the company surgeon look at it while you're asking about your prescription. Ready to go?"

I tried not to sound too enthusiastic because I didn't want to offend him but I had had enough of his kitchen horrors and his possessive cat. "Lead the way."

A gaggle of reporters had clustered around the marble stairs in the front of the building. Ranger Dillon turned the truck down a side street in order to avoid them. "Don't worry about it," he said, seeing my expression of distress. "We'll use either the side or the back entrance."

Ten minutes later, the Ranger was still circling the block. A few of the more adventurous reporters had thought to cover the other entrances. One of them was headed toward his news van and showed every sign of pursuing us. Swearing, Ranger Dillon ducked the truck down an alleyway and then headed back onto the interstate. Steering the vehicle with one knee while buildings and cars whizzed by at an alarming rate, he dug around under his side of the dash.

"Um, hadn't you better keep your hands on the steering wheel?" I suggested. He didn't answer and, chancing a glance backward, I saw the news van still behind us. "They're catching up."

"I know that, Miss Kat. Just sit tight and trust me."

He swerved across three lanes of traffic into the fastest moving lane and then, apparently finding what he was looking for, returned his hands to the steering wheel. I guessed he'd turned on his emergency lights because traffic in front of us started getting out of the way and the van lagged farther behind. The truck squealed around a corner in a tight turn onto an off ramp. I covered my face with my hands, certain we were going to end up smeared across the concrete barrier.

"Hideaway strobes," Ranger Dillon explained with smug satisfaction. I felt the truck slowing down and let my hands fall to my lap. They were trembling. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "Are you all right?"

"Just a little shaken," I responded. "Was that really necessary?"

Ranger Dillon had the grace to look chagrinned. "Unfortunately. I can't protect you as well in a crowd that large and the less the press knows about the case, the better."

"What are we going to do?"

"I'm going to call Karen," he said, reaching for his cell phone. "We'll bring you in through the morgue in the ME's van."

"What?" I shrieked. "You have got to be kidding me! I'm not going to do it. You're not going to haul me back there disguised as a…a corpse!"

"Did _I_ say anything about disguising you as a corpse?" he demanded. A touch of impatience colored his voice and his blue eyes snapped with indignation.

"N-no," I stammered, gulping. _He must think I'm a total moron, the way I keep losing it like this._ "No, you didn't."

He turned the truck into one of those parking lots squeezed in under the overpasses. I knew from the metal sculptures and artwork that we must be in or near Deep Ellum. In the 90s it had been quite a hot clubbing spot; now it ran to shabby chic galleries and consignment shops interspersed with seedy bars and tattoo parlors. It wasn't exactly a place I'd feel safe, even in broad daylight and in the presence of a Texas Ranger.

Either I tensed up or he read my mind because, after parking the pick-up, his big hand reached over and covered mine. "It'll be all right, Miss Kat. I won't let anything happen to you."

I don't like to eavesdrop on other's phone conversations so I didn't hear whatever it was Karen said to him when he called. I gathered, however, from the expression on his face that he either didn't like what she'd said or that she'd embarrassed him. The back of his neck turned red and he rubbed it with the other hand as he muttered, "Please don't, Karen. Oh, all right, just get it done."

Now why should I feel jealous of the medical examiner? Ranger Dillon had already made it clear he was single…hadn't he? Suddenly, I felt lost and alone. I wished Aunt Edwina had decided to come into the city when we had instead of remaining behind with Porter. More than that, I wished none of this had ever happened in the first place. "I want my Mama." I didn't think he'd heard me and I was glad. That just sounded so damned needy, a grown thirty-something girl like me wanting her mother.

"Hey," he said awkwardly, "you…that is, you're not…are you okay?"

"I'm fine. When's Karen getting here?" I asked, changing the subject.

"There she is," Ranger Dillon said. I looked out the window…and saw a long white hearse with the DPS logo and "Dallas County Medical Examiner" on its side.

"Oh, Hell no!" I exclaimed. "You told me that you weren't going to do anything stupid. There's no way I'm riding in the back of that…that thing!"

Someone knocked on the window and I let out an involuntary scream. "It's just Karen," he said. "Would you…look," Ranger Dillon said, completely flustered, "this wasn't my idea. Just let me _talk_ to her for a minute. We'll figure something else out."

"Heya, Dillon," said Karen cheerfully as he got out of the truck. She gestured grandly to the hearse. "Your chariot awaits!"

Ranger Dillon was mad; I could tell by the tense set of his shoulders and the way he held his arms stiffly at his side with his thumbs hooked into the gun belt. "This isn't funny, Karen!" he snapped. "Why do you have to mess with her like that?"

"Trust me, Dillon, it's the best way to pull this off. The reporters are _not_ going to bother an ME's hearse. It will allow us to drive right down into the loading bay. From there, it's a short walk to the surgeon's office." She chuckled, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "Besides, it's not like I'm asking her to ride in back!"

"I…I don't have to?" I stammered.

Karen sighed and glared at Ranger Dillon. "You didn't think to tell her that, did you, boy?" she asked, nudging him in the ribs.

I felt sorry for him; plainly it had never occurred to him to explain something which was common knowledge for both of them to someone with no connection to law enforcement. He ducked his head and pulled his Stetson low over his face. "I'm sorry," he said to both of us.

"Are you going to leave the truck here?" she asked. Ranger Dillon nodded. "All right then, everybody get in."

The ride wasn't as traumatic as I would have expected; the front of the vehicle, where we rode, was just like any other vehicle. I cringed when we pulled into the loading bay but Karen came to my rescue. "I'll take her in," she offered. "You should check in with Captain Marrin. He's been looking for you, Dillon, since early this morning." In a lower voice which I wasn't meant to overhear, she told him, "I finished the autopsy results early this morning. It doesn't look good."

I could tell he wanted to ask her more questions but wouldn't as long as I was nearby. Instead he nodded. "All right, I'll go up and see him now. I'll be back as soon as I can, Miss Kat," Ranger Dillon promised.

If it hadn't been for a bad set of coincidences, the two of them might have gotten me to the company surgeon's office without further panic attacks. Unfortunately, as we were coming in a nervous looking young man pushing a cadaver on a gurney barreled into us. The sheet fell off of the corpse, revealing my father, who now sported a "Y" shaped autopsy incision in addition to the other abuses done his body.

I gasped and a strangled scream escaped. Once I started, I couldn't stop. Dimly, through ringing ears and fading vision, I heard Ranger Dillon yelling, "Damnit, Harris, you're not even supposed to _be_ down here. What in Hell do you think you're doing?"

Karen was tugging on my arm. "Come on, sweetie, come away from there. Let's get you to the company surgeon's office. Dillon, I can't get her to respond to me."

I recognized the touch as Ranger Dillon's when he swept me off my feet and into his arms. I curled against him, face buried in his shirt front to block out the horrible image of my violated father. "I'll carry her," he said. "It isn't far."

My vision returned about the time he gently set me down on what felt like an examination table. "Dr. Boyd, we…ah…had a bit of a mishap," Karen explained.

"I need my friggin' Xanax," I managed. "Now."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – Alex Dillon

**Chapter 7 – Alex Dillon**

We reach the loading bay without further incident. A reporter type had thought to cover the employee's entrance but Karen deftly avoids him by pulling directly into area meant for unloading corpses from the hearse.

"Through here," I say, tugging Kat's arm. She flinches away from my touch and looks behind us, clearly anxious. Her eyes, gone wide and staring, fill her face. I want to get her into my office, make her snug and secure with a cup of coffee. Now we'd have to navigate through the bowels of the building before I could do so. The dark, quiet hallway seems to bother her. She fidgeted and twitched, sweating profusely in spite of the perpetually cool temperatures at which this section was usually kept. This is so much worse for her, I know.

There's always a chance that one of the other MEs or one of my fellow lab rats will be down here examining a body or that one will be brought in. I had hoped by taking the back way, coming through the exam rooms, I'd be able to keep us in the clear. All is quiet in the corridors -- smooth tiles and fluorescent lights. Our breath comes out in faint clouds, as if we were outside on a snowy day. I wish it _was_ that simple; we keep these rooms at those frigid temperatures to preserve evidence and retard the decay process. I aim for an exam room, meaning to take the corridor up to my office using one of the utility elevators. The light is on in Exam One. Good enough. I nudge Kat towards it and we push through the rear door.

I instantly regret entering but it's too late to hope Kat hasn't seen this. Harris stands over the body of Kat's dad, up to his elbows in gore. The open neck is clearly visible and he's fidgeting in the open gaps. He looks up as he hears us come in and greets me with a smile. I suppress the urge to beat him senseless.

"Damnit, Harris, you're not even supposed to _be_ down here. What in Hell do you think you're doing?"

Realizing his mistake, Harris stammers something and awkwardly tries to pull the autopsy sheet back over the corpse. When that doesn't work, he attempts to push the gurney away from us but only succeeds in shoving it forward. It collides with Kat's hip and the sheet slides off. Her mouth opens with a small mewling sound of sheer terror…and then she screams and won't stop.

Karen wraps a hand around Kat's arm and tries to lead her back out into the corridor. "Come on, sweetie," she says soothingly, "come away from there." The gentle contact seems to provide some comfort; Kat's screams die back to hiccupping whimpers and she takes a single step back toward the door. Karen puts an arm around her. "Let's get you to the company surgeon's office." That's when she…locks up, for back of a better description. Her eyes are fixed, her breathing rapid and shallow. Frustrated, Karen turns to me. "Dillon, I can't get her to respond to me."

Kat's face has lost all color; she's going to faint. I dash forward, ignoring the twinge in my ribs, and sweep her up into my arms. She folds against me and buries her face against the front of my shirt before going limp. "I'll carry her. It isn't far."

It doesn't work out that way. I stagger under the dead weight as a sharp pain in the vicinity of my ribs darkens my vision. No, this isn't going to work at all. "Help me!" I have her, but I need to take her out of here. Karen had run ahead, presumably to alert Dr. Boyd of the problem, and Harris might as well be of some use.

"How? What?" Flustered, He drops something and now he's about to handle Kat with his bloody gloves.

"No, Harris, take those off. Open the door and let's get her upstairs." I try to keep my voice calm. I know if I lose my temper and shout, I'll upset Harris and he'll be useless. He's in for it once we've got Kat upstairs. He's stripped off his gloves and he takes her feet to help me lift her. Undignified, but it works. "Now, get the elevator."

He dutifully punches the button, but he keeps his eyes on the floor. He already knows he has a lot of explaining to do but, I have to admit, he isn't trying to get out of it. The car comes and he helps me put Kat on the faded velvet bench inside. Years ago, this was an office complex and this particular elevator went to the executive suites. Dr. Boyd's office is one of the old executive suites just to the left of the elevator. I gently lay Kat down on his leather examination couch, take her shoes off, and dim the lights. In the inner office I can hear Karen explaining what happened. As soon as I'm certain Kat will be safe here, I drag Harris down the hall, out of earshot.

"You crazy son of a bitch! What were you DOING?" I want to jump on him and just beat him senseless, but Harris shrinks back like a scolded puppy. I wouldn't kick a puppy for doing something wrong and I'm not going to do that to Harris either. He won't learn anything from his mistakes that way. I take a deep breath and try again. "Look ... Miss Dupree is anxious, and you didn't help. What were you doing with that body? I don't want to find your DNA on him."

Harris looks more than ever like a whipped puppy. "You shouldn't. I…I followed protocols. I was curious. It wasn't normal." I want to scream. Nothing about this case was normal!

"What?" I sigh. "It had best be good. Tell me."

He looks like he'd as soon jump out a window. "I wanted to see the bodies. And see how they were ... decapitated. It was done clean."

I didn't want to ask how he knew, but Harris was good at this. I nod.

"Something looked wrong. I couldn't figure it out. I started to examine the open arteries and the esophagus, and I found something."

Okay ... just let him talk. I try to breathe. "What did you see?"

"These." He digs into his pocket and brings out a plastic evidence bag with two small objects. I note with distracted pleasure that Harris remembered both how to bag the evidence and how to label it. The only problem is, his initials aren't _supposed_ to be on any evidence at all. Harris isn't to the point in his training where I would trust him to process evidence alone. _I'll find a way to deal with that later. What did he find?_ I examine the object more closely. They're tiny and covered with gore, but I could see glints of polished turquoise. I take the bag and hold it up.

"What are they?" _And why didn't Karen find these? It's not like her to miss evidence._

Harris coughs. "I'm not sure, boss. I found them in the neck of both bodies. One in each."

I notice that each piece has a small diagram attached indicating exactly where the pieces were found. _Good boy, Harris!_ I make a mental note to compare these with the autopsy notes; maybe Karen simply neglected to mention this or forgot to remove them after noting them.

"I'm going to hang onto these; they're evidence." He brightens up a bit, holding on to that crumb of praise as though it's gold. To him, it probably is. "Harris, you had no reason to examine those bodies." I'm tired of wrestling with my temper and finally it wins out, even though I want badly to get those bits of stone processed and I know we wouldn't have them if he _hadn't _been curious enough to disobey orders. "Miss Dupree passed out! Damnit, you're not authorized to examine them, and you had no damn business down there!"

I don't realize I'm shouting until Karen peers out of Dr. Boyd's doorway, a scowl on her face, and makes a quieting motion with her hand.

"Well, you just said I found evidence!"

He did, and now I'm going to be faced with the possibility of accusing a co-worker of negligence…not to mention finding a way to justify Harris' signatures on the chain of custody notes. "Go clean the damn lab. With a toothbrush! I don't want to look at your face the rest of the night!" Harris' eyes grow wide in disbelief. "I mean it. I want to be able to eat my lunch off the exam table. Go." He paused, probably stunned. "GO!"

I've never yelled at someone like that, and Harris hauls himself back in the direction of the labs as fast as he can move. I take out the bags and look at the slimy bits of stone. What if Harris, gigantic ass he was, had found a major clue? _I'd owe him an apology._ I stuff it back in my pocket and go sit with Kat.

She looks a lot better than when I last saw her; she's sitting up with a cup of coffee in her hands and her legs swinging over the edge of the exam table. "Are you all right?" I ask. "I'm really sorry --"

Kat cuts me off with a sweetly apologetic smile. "It's all right, Ranger Dillon, I'm perfectly fine now. There wasn't anything you could have done differently."

_I could have kept a better rein on Harris. He's my responsibility._

Instead, I nod curtly and pull my Stetson down lower over my eyes. "Will you be okay here for a while? Captain Marrin wants to see me."

"Dr. Boyd took care of my Xanax prescription and Karen's going to take me to the cafeteria to get some breakfast."

"This shouldn't take too long. I'll swing by the cafeteria and pick you up so we can take you to get some better clothes."

As I'm making my escape, elderly Dr. Boyd snags my arm. It just so happens to be the one Porter twisted up behind my back last night and I can't help hissing in pain. "A moment of your time, young Dillon, if you please," he says, pulling me into his inner office and closing the door.

I'm actually comfortable here. It looks like an anthropologist's study. Most of the space is taken up by book shelves containing texts on anatomy and various medical specialties but here and there are pieces of bone, an entire human skull, jars of things I can only guess at. I've been told that if I stay in the profession long enough I'll have my own souvenirs, but I'm not planning on it. That just seems too…macabre for my tastes. "Sit down." I take the chair opposite his on the other side of the desk and fold myself into it as best I can. It really wasn't meant to accommodate someone so tall. "I wanted to have a word with you in private about Miss Dupree's condition. No," Dr. Boyd says, holding up a hand to forestall my anxious queries, "there's nothing _physically_ wrong with her. She does, however, seem to be emotionally fragile, even taking into consideration the circumstances. Miss Dupree seems to trust you; do what you can to keep her feeling safe and secure, will you, boy?"

"I'll do what I can, sir."

"Good. Otherwise, I'm very much afraid for her continued sanity. She means a lot to our Captain and her family is important to the entire Dallas metroplex. We can't have anything happening to her. Now, I haven't given her anything to sedate her, just reinstated her anti-anxiety medications. Don't be afraid to bring her back here if the medications don't seem to be working."

My cell phone vibrates. I don't have to look at the number to know that it's Captain Marrin. If he's bothered enough to be calling, it means he's getting impatient. I stand up, carefully suppressing an involuntary cry as the irritated muscles in my back protest. "I need to see the Captain," I explain.

"Just one more thing, boy." Dr. Boyd tosses a bottle across the desk, which I catch by reflex. "Broken ribs hurt. Do yourself a favor and take one of those every four hours. You can't guard the girl properly if you're in pain. And next time, don't take on Porter alone. 'most everyone here is aware of how he does things. Talk to the Captain instead."

_Damnit, does everyone know my business?_

Captain Marrin's private office, with some justification as he's the head honcho for Company B, is located in what used to be the penthouse. The stairs are faster, but I didn't think I could manage them today and I wasn't about to take any of Dr. Boyd's pills until I'd had a chance to read the label and find out just what it was he'd given me. Instead, I elected to wait for the elevator. _Now why is it that when I'm in a hurry it always seems to take forever?_

The other Rangers toss a few sympathetic looks my way as I made my way through the nest of cubicles to the big teak door on the other side of the office. That tells me Captain Marrin had probably lost patience with my tardy arrival some time ago. I poke my head into the office. "You sent for me, sir?"

Marrin explodes from behind his desk like a bulldog after a bone. "What in Sam Hill took you so long, Dillon? I asked you up here nearly an hour ago!"

Holding my hands up in a placating gesture, I tell him, "We had a few problems this morning." I give him a quick summary about the encounter with reporters and Kat's fainting spell, leaving out -- for now -- Harris' part in it and my doubts about Karen's ability to perform these particular autopsies without bias.

"All right," he says, calming down. "I can see you had good reason, son." He shoves two thick manila envelopes across the desk at me. "Your status as a Ranger allows you full access to case files. These are the files for the Duprees. I want you to take a closer look and give me your opinion. We're _missing_ something, damnit, but I don't know what it is."

"Have the bodies been released to the family yet?" I ask.

He shakes his head and looks like he'd really like to light up one of those cigars he favors. Instead, he clamps his teeth down on nothing and replies, "Not just yet. As I said, there's some confusion over the scene and the evidence. We can't release the bodies until we've cleared it up."

"I'd like to take a look for myself, if that can be arranged."

"Just get it done, Dillon, and bring me something I can use. The pressure to solve this case is unbelievable. The Duprees had a lot of influential friends in the community."

That's clearly a dismissal. I take the case files back to my desk, lock them in the top drawer, and then drop the key in my pocket for safekeeping. My temper has cooled and I'm feeling guilty about the dressing down I gave Harris. I head back down to the lab to collect him; his inquisitiveness may prove useful when I review the bodies…and it will provide me with a logical explanation for his signature on the evidence bags which won't get him fired.

I hear the radio, tuned to some sort of classic station, playing as I get closer. A deep sense of shame settles in when I see what Harris is doing; I didn't think he'd take me literally but he's on his hands and knees scrubbing the room with a toothbrush just as I'd asked him to do. He's talking to himself. Arms crossed, I lean on the door jamb and observe for a while.

"How do they work like this?" I hear him mutter as he gouges crud out of corners and works at one of the drains. "They could really contaminate bodies and compromise evidence in a place this funky."

I make a mental note not to further underestimate my intern; I'd known Harris was keen on serial killer trivia but I hadn't known that he actually cared about the evidence itself.

"Maybe I can put in for overtime," he says doubtfully as he contemplates the last half gallon of bleach. The way he moves his hands suggests they sting, even with the protective gloves, and he's wheezing a bit through the mask. I _really_ should maintain better control of my temper; I hadn't meant for the poor guy to hurt himself. "I hope the morning shift appreciates this."

The CD player whirrs softly and then begins playing something by Queen. I blink in amazement as my intern grins, grabs a mop, and starts dancing around. Occasionally he slides across the damp floor; the move is from some 80s movie but since I don't often watch more than westerns or documentaries I can't recall its name. "_I want to break free,_" he warbles, his tenor voice slightly off key as he puts away the tools and equipment he'd previously sterilized in the autoclave.

"I guess that's about it unless Dillon wants the drains and traps cleaned out." He squats and peers down into one of the grates. "I'm no plumber but…hey, that's not supposed to be there!"

Wondering what had caught Harris' eye, I step inside the exam room. He looks up at the sound of my boot heels on the linoleum, starts to scramble to his feet, but somehow gets tangled up in the hem of his lab coat. Harris falls heavily, the table edge making a loud clanging sound as it connects with his head, and I wince.

Offering him a hand up, I say, "You practice that move, or was it just spontaneous?"

Harris shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. The exam room is about as clean as humanly possible and, I have to admit, he'd done a remarkable job at it. The place reeks of bleach though. I hate the way some of this cleaning stuff smells -- they all try to make it smell like wildflowers or something, when it all really just smells like chemicals.

Harris laughs awkwardly and doesn't really answer. "I think," he says slowly, "that someone has been rather careless lately. There shouldn't be _anything_ in these traps."

"You're right," I say and make another note to find out which deputy MEs are using this particular exam room. "What have you got there?"

Aware that he might be handling evidence, Harris gets a new pair of gloves without being told, reaches into the trap, and delicately sifts through the debris. "It looks like more of that stone, boss, but it's broken up. I can't tell if it washed off the bodies that way or…."

"Or what?" I prompt.

"Someone deliberately tried to dispose of it." He looks scared and appalled at the thought. One of the things I'd impressed upon Harris early on was that evidence was sacred.

If I'd been unsure about involving Harris on this case, I'm not now. He's already proven invaluable. "Look, Harris, I want you to review this case along with me. I have the files, and well ... you did find evidence."

He lights up like a Christmas tree when I mention that. "Well, I _was_ thinking while I was cleaning up, the neck's important in like, a symbolic sense, you know? And ..."

I cut him off. "Hold on to that thought. You might get yourself a notebook. We're going to do this properly. If you're going to examine bodies, you ought to know how to do it the right way."

He still looks like a kid being given the biggest treat ever. It's pretty morbid, but I'm finally grateful for his curiosity. Since he found those clues in the neck, he might see something else valuable or even figure out what the heck those pieces of stone mean.

"Okay, a notebook. I'll get one out of the supply closet ..."

"Oh, don't bother. I'll give you an extra. Supply will want to know everything you intend to write in it, prove you can hold a pencil, and then see your ID before they give you a thing." We have a supply clerk who thinks that every item in storage is her personal property. Getting a box of staples was like trying to adopt a child.

Finally he turns the CD player off. "What was that you were listening to?" I ask.

"Queen. I uh ... really like them." He pockets the disc and I shake my head; I know I'm going to have "Fat Bottomed Girls" stuck in my head the rest of the day and I don't particularly like Queen.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 – Kat Dupree**

Once he'd ascertained I'd suffered no harm from my latest anxiety attack, it didn't take long for the elderly Dr. Boyd to get my prescription filled. He asked a few questions, obtained the phone number for the LSU campus physician who had been treating me, and then disappeared into his inner office.

When Ranger Dillon reappeared, I was sitting on the exam table and sipping the cup of coffee Karen had brought me. He looked even worse than he had this morning, his mouth set in a grimace of suppressed pain and his expression harried. I smiled, wanting to reassure him so that I wouldn't be on his list of worries for the day. "It's all right, Ranger Dillon, I'm perfectly fine now. There wasn't anything you could have done differently." After all, it wasn't his fault that we happened to walk in while the autopsy on my father was in progress. I felt more inclined to blame the news media who forced us to sneak into the building in the first place.

When he has the chance to do so, Ranger Dillon seemed good at hiding his feelings. He pulled the brim of his Stetson down lower over his eyes and answered gruffly, "Will you be okay for a while? Captain Marrin wants to see me."

I shrugged and answered him, "Dr. Boyd's taking care of my Xanax prescription and Karen's offered to take me to breakfast in the cafeteria."

Ranger Dillon smiled that little boy smile and nodded. "This shouldn't take too long. I'll swing by the cafeteria and pick you up so we can take you to get some better clothes."

The questioning note in his voice made it sound like he was asking for a date. I patted him on the arm, avoiding the places I knew hurt. "That sounds good to me. I'll see you then."

Dr. Boyd grabbed him before he could leave the office and pulled him into the inner office. I hoped that the elderly gentleman had noticed the Ranger's pain and would take care of it.

"All set?" Karen asked.

I shook my purse, and reassured by the sound of pills in a bottle rattling around, nodded. "Let's get something to eat, I'm starving!"

The Rangers' cafeteria was not, as I had half feared, a dingy institutional setting consigned to the back hallways or basement. Instead, it was on the lobby level in an atrium. The big windows ran from floor to ceiling and overlooked a landscaped lake and gave the place a bright, airy feeling. Tables and chairs were grouped around planters bursting with spots of color from flowers and the vibrant greenery of potted plants and small trees.

"We need a place like this," Karen commented, noting my wide-eyed surprise, "to escape, for however little time, the work we do. The food's not bad either, if you know what to pick." Her round full face broke into a smile of delight. "C'mon, I'll try to keep you from getting food poisoning."

The medical examiner must have been jesting about the quality of the food; I'd seen much worse served in the LSU cafeterias and said as much. Breakfast isn't my preferred meal of the day, but panic attacks always leave me ravenous. Unfortunately, it looked like Ranger tastes ran toward home-style cooking and I've never liked the stuff much; Edwina at least makes an effort to make her cooking healthy when I'm around, but most of what the cafeteria had to offer looked like a heart attack on a plate. I finally decided I could ask Ranger Dillon to stop for something more substantial while we were out on our errands and chose a bagel with cream cheese.

Beside me, Karen sighed. I noticed she had pretty much the same things on her tray as I had on mine except she'd chosen coffee. "I told you, they don't have much to offer for the health conscious. It tastes good enough but" she made a gesture toward her ample hips "if you spend most of your day behind a desk, it goes right where you don't need it! We girls kept asking them to put in a salad bar. They didn't do that until six months ago."

Colleagues called greetings to her as we made our way to a quiet table which overlooked the lake. A few of them stared frankly at me, probably wondering what on earth a Dupree was doing in their humble domain…as if they hadn't heard already. "Take a picture, it lasts longer," I muttered sourly.

"They don't mean anything by it," Karen assured me. "I don't usually stay up here and they're used to seeing me alone. Even when Alex eats with me, we generally eat downstairs."

I split the bagel and spread cream cheese on both halves while I collected my thoughts. "So you and Ranger Dillon are…?" I asked casually.

"We were," she replied, her expression pensive. "We dated for a few months but it didn't work out. When I got promoted to ME, that made me his immediate supervisor and it wasn't proper anyhow. Now we're just friends. He's a good guy. You couldn't ask for better protection."

We finished our breakfast and the conversation lagged. The cafeteria emptied out and Karen kept surreptitiously glancing at her watch. I twisted around in my chair to glance at the clock; it was after 10:30. "I guess his business with the Captain must be taking longer than he thought it would," I offered lamely.

"It's more likely he forgot all about you," Karen said, the twinkle in her eyes taking the sting out of her words.

"He said something last night about getting a company issued credit card for me so that I can take care of my personal needs," I mentioned. "My assets are frozen until the investigation closes and Porter didn't give me time to pack much."

"So I heard," Karen said, pursing her lips together. I got the distinct impression that she didn't care much for the bull headed sergeant either.

"I don't want to interrupt Ranger Dillon while he's working. If you could just get him to give me the card, I could either borrow a car or rent one and take care of those things myself. It would be one less thing for him to worry about."

"I'll let you borrow my car, if he's willing to put the gas in it." She dug around in her purse until she found her cell phone. "I'll give him a call and see what can be arranged." She dialed, and I gathered from the expression on her face that Ranger Dillon's greeting had been less than pleasant. "Well, good morning to you too," Karen said with some asperity. "Yes, I know you're busy. Captain Marrin is breathing down my neck too, you know. I'm going to help you out a bit. If you'll put gas in my car and give me the card issued to Ms. Dupree, we'll amuse ourselves. Yeah, I can meet you at the back door." Her face got red. "No, I'm not your errand girl, Alexander Dillon! I'm not going to run down the street and get your lunch order! Come up out of that den you call a lab and take the time to eat. All right, ten minutes tops." She blew a playful kiss into the phone and hung up. "All set," she said, turning to me.

Porter strode by, so intent on his destination that he didn't acknowledge either one of us. He walked with the attitude of someone severely pissed off and about to take it out on the next hapless victim he met. "Uh-oh," I said, "that looks like trouble."

"It sure does," said Karen. "Listen, would you mind staying here while I go down to the lab? The last thing you need is another confrontation with Porter when he's in that mood!"

"I don't mind at all," I said. I figured I was safe enough here, surrounded by Rangers, police officers, and lab technicians. Karen excused herself. I found an old romance novel in my purse and sipped my orange juice while I read.

About twenty minutes later, Karen reappeared. She dangled a set of keys from a leather thong and handed me a credit card which had the Texas Department of Public Safety logo embossed on the front of it. Her mouth was set in disapproval or anger, but she smiled at me. "Good thing you stayed behind. Trust me, you didn't want to be at ground zero when those two butted heads. They were still shouting at each other when I left." Karen pointed to a small black topped key with a separate fob. "That one goes to my Hyundai. It's the blue coupe parked on the third level of the parking garage. I've got to get back to work now. Be careful!"

We walked to the elevators together and then parted ways. I found the vehicle with little difficulty and headed out. Karen has good taste in vehicles; the little coupe was an automatic, which made driving it simple, and it had a little too much zip to be considered practical. It was a vehicle I might have chosen for myself, had I the option, and it was comfortable. I filled the tank at the gas station on the corner and then took the expressway to Galleria Dallas.

It wasn't my first choice for clothes shopping, as I don't particularly care for the trendy brands, but it was the closest. I left the Hyundai with the valet, just to make certain the vehicle would be safe, and entered the mall. I didn't have much choice about the stores I frequented; Sak's Fifth Avenue seemed to be the least expensive and there was just no way I would buy my underthings from Victoria's Secret when it seemed likely that one of the two Rangers would have to balance the account and justify the expenses!

I did allow myself to be lost in the pleasure of shopping and to forget for the moment the reason I needed new things in the first place. The clerk at Sak's proved quite helpful and I shortly had a working wardrobe: several pairs of slacks which could be interchanged with either knitted tops or more formal looking blouses, depending on the occasion; several sweaters, two pairs of jeans, a winter jacket; a pair of flats for the business attire and a pair of hiking boots for casual wear…and the all important underthings.

The lipstick, blush, and eye shadow compact I carried in my purse would be enough to last me until the Rangers released the scene and I could get back into my parents' home, but I just had to do something about the bath products. The ones at the ranch house had been stocked with male occupants in mind and just weren't complimentary to a woman's body chemistry. Laden with my packages, I headed toward Lush. You do pay a premium for their organic products, but I considered it well worth it. My hair and skin were somewhat finicky and tended to flake if I didn't take sufficient care.

While I paid for the bath products I needed, my cell phone rang. I jumped a bit, as I wasn't expecting any calls, and glanced at the screen to see who had phoned me. Stacie Kingston, Harris' foster sister and my best friend from high school. With all that had happened, I had completely forgotten about her engagement and pending marriage.

This was likely to be a long conversation. I found a bench and, setting my packages beside me, flopped on it. "Kat Dupree," I answered. "How are you, Stacie?"

"I should be asking _you_ that." Her voice sounded a little less bright than usual. "Are you okay, Kat? I heard about what happened. It's just terrible! We're all going to miss your parents."

_Just great. By now everyone in Highland Park_ _probably knows about the murders. I don't want to deal with this right now. _"I'm doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances," I said, forcing a cheerful tone even as I ignored the tears which suddenly spilled down my cheeks. Stacie never had been known for her sensitivity, but I was going to have to deal with her somehow. Her gushing sympathy, always delivered in the same chipper voice, was the _last_ thing I needed right now. "Look, I've got some things---"

"Nonsense! I'm your friend. You need someone to lean on with your parents gone. Let me amuse you for a bit. We can meet somewhere and discuss wedding plans." Her voice turned confidential and sly. "I still have you in mind as my maid of honor, you know, and maybe you could bring along that handsome new Ranger they've got protecting you."

_Shit. She's not going to take 'no' for an answer._ I didn't think this was what either Ranger Dillon or Karen had in mind when they let me run errands today. In fact, I was fairly certain neither of them would approve at all. "That's nice of you to offer ---"

Stacie didn't give me a chance to explain. "Good! Now, where are you?" I told her and she squealed. "I'm at Galleria as well; I was doing some bridal shopping." We made arrangements to meet for lunch at the food court in a few minutes and I hung up.

Galleria's food court matched its upscale department stores. In addition to the usual fast food fare, it had several full service restaurants serving anything from classic Southwestern cuisine to Continental Italian. Knowing it was one of my favorites, it was at this last place Stacie chose to meet me. We seated ourselves at one of the umbrella covered tables bordering the railing overlooking the skating rink and the waiter came to take our order. If Stacie noticed my lack of contribution to the conversation, she was more than willing to fill the gaps. She kept up a constant stream of gossip about the people we'd gone to high school with and chatter about the upcoming wedding.

"…and you know what goofball Harris is up to these days? He majored in law and he's finishing up his degree with an internship at the regional criminology lab," she said, bringing my attention sharply back to the conversation. I dropped my fork and it clattered against the china. "Oh, dear, did I say something wrong?" Stacie asked.

A flash memory of the scared young man I'd seen in the hallway before my anxiety attack earlier today appeared. _Yeah, that could have been Harris. It's been a while since I've seen him._ If that was the case, Ranger Dillon would want to know about our connection with one another and Sergeant Porter would be furious that I hadn't remembered. "No, it's nothing you said," I assured her. "I think I might have run into Harris at Headquarters, that's all." I picked up my fork and resumed eating my pasta salad. "It seems to be a good application of the boy's skills."

"I suppose so," said Stacie, obviously disinterested in discussing her foster brother's life any further. That didn't surprise me; the two weren't particularly close as children --- Harris had been closer to me --- and now that they were adults she obviously considered him of a different social stratus.

Unfortunately Stacie had never been known for her tact either. Her next question hit me like a blow. "Will you be assuming responsibility for your parents' business and charity responsibilities now?"

"I haven't really had time to think about it since I got back," I admitted. My voice cracked and I hastily wiped more tears away with a napkin. "I want to get through the funerals before I do anything else." I knew I wouldn't be able to put it off forever; already there were three messages on my voice mail from the various charities in which they'd been involved.

"Well," said Stacie, extending her hand, "you've got friends here in Dallas. You have only to call if you need help."

By the time I'd managed to convince Stacie I really _did_ need to go, it was getting late. As I drove off into the mid afternoon sun, intending to head back to Headquarters, my cell phone rang again. This time it was one of my Mama's friends, Sissy Westergren, wanting to meet with me at the downtown offices to sit in on one of the charity board meetings. _Well, it's unlikely Ranger Dillon is finished at the lab or he'd have called._ Besides, overseeing some of my parents' affairs would give me something to do and would keep my mind off of everything else that had happened. I switched lanes, got onto the beltway, and headed downtown.

The Society for the Preservation of Native Texas Plains Cultures had its offices in the same building which housed the famous Crow Collection comprised of donated artwork and artifacts from the metroplex's Asian American population. As a non-profit organization, that meant it didn't really belong to anyone and so it hadn't been affected by the freezing of my parents' assets. However, thanks to Porter's asinine inefficiency, I no longer had a key to the offices. Sissy must have known this because she met me in the lobby and escorted me up to the board room.

"Kathryn, it's good to see you." she greeted me, kissing me lightly on the cheek. "I'm so sorry about your loss! We were all shocked to hear about it. How are you holding up?"

I didn't know how to answer that question, since I hadn't really had time to process what had happened. Sissy had been Mama's next choice, after Edwina, regarding who would take care of me if anything happened to her and Daddy before I came of age. _Could I afford to trust anyone now? The Rangers seem to think whoever killed my parents was someone close to them._ I settled for a neutral smile, the kind I used in professional settings, and answered semi-truthfully, "I'm coping. What's on the agenda for this meeting?"

"Well," said Sissy apologetically as we got in the elevator, "I wouldn't have bothered you at a time like this if it didn't involve tabled business which must be settled as quickly as possible. I'm sure you know that your parents had given the Society a rather large collection of artifacts which are to be displayed in new cultural center."

The elevator pinged and we started walking along the corridor. "I'm not sure I can help much. My parents' assets are frozen until the investigation is over and several of those items are still back at the house, contained within the crime scene."

"I'd already spoken with Captain Marrin on the matter; since most of the collection was already out of the home and there is no monetary transfer involved, he doesn't seem to think there would be a problem with signing it over to us." She opened the board room door. "There's just one little problem---"

_Crap. I wish someone had told me _he _would be here. I'd have tabled this meeting indefinitely._

The meeting room was elegant and modern, but without the huge windows of some buildings. It featured a series of narrow glass panels around the exterior, and through this I could piece together the scene in a desert garden below. One large tree sheltered this part of the building from the afternoon light.

It couldn't, unfortunately, shelter me from the presence of Daniel Bonner. Something about the man had always bothered me, even when we were teens in school together. Looking into those cold ice blue eyes, so out of place on his chiseled Comanche features, was like looking into a dark side of my soul that I didn't ever want to face. I never understood that visceral reaction; as far as I knew, we weren't related and we definitely didn't move in the same social circles.

He'd spent most of his time either playing for the lacrosse team or attending rallies and protests organized by the student Native Rights organization. In my last year of high school, he'd courted me heavily but I hadn't given him any encouragement. Now, as an adult, he'd founded a grassroots organization which advocated Native rights in various cases ranging from eminent domain to repossession of artifacts to be given back to the tribe from which they'd originally been taken. I could just guess what he was doing here, and I wasn't about to allow him to get away with it.

I couldn't very well leave the room now that he'd spotted me; I'd be stuck dealing with him for the duration of the meeting. He came from around the refreshments table and came toward me. The other board members gave him ample room to pass; their body language indicated that most of them were afraid of the power he exuded and they wanted as little to do with him as possible. Daniel knew exactly what effect he had on people and reveled in it; he'd initially claimed an interest in me because I refused to give in to that sort of subtle bullying.

"Kathryn." He'd cultured his voice until no hint of a Texas accent remained, no inflection of warmth or compassion. I suppressed a shudder as he bent low and kissed my hand. "I hadn't expected you here at all, considering your current difficulties. It's good of you to come and arbitrate our minor disputes. May I get you something, a cup of coffee perhaps?"

"Daniel," I acknowledged. My hand itched to slap him and the meeting hadn't even started. "A cup of coffee would be acceptable, thank you."

"You still take it black." He made it a statement, not a question. I nodded and Daniel chuckled nastily. "Ever our _belle dame sans merci_. Do take your place at the conference table and make yourself comfortable. I'll bring it right to you." He executed a little bow and went back to the refreshment table. I chose a quiet corner of the board room, deliberately avoiding the places left vacant by my parents, where I could observe without interfering or being interfered with.

_Just who the hell does he think he is anyhow? Daniel acts like this is his show to run. _I gave him a bare nod of acknowledgment when he slid the cup in front of me and fumed quietly until the banging of the gavel startled me out of my thoughts.

"Meeting'll come to order. Y'all be quiet, now. The Board of Commissioners of the Society for the Preservation of Native Texas Plains Culture has come to order, is a quorum present?" He was an elderly white fellow of mostly German descent, but his family had been in the area since it was mostly wild goats and Indians. I had no idea how my Daddy had roped him into being involved with this project, considering the long standing animosity of the man's family toward the Comanches and other raiding tribes, but he'd been a good choice. His family's collection of artifacts was nearly as large as mine.

I rubbed my eyes and took a long sip of coffee.

Near the head of the table, at Mr. Oster's left elbow, perched Daniel Bonner. Next to him was Blanche Goodwood, a gentle lady of part Cherokee and part white ancestry. When I first met Blanche, I'd mistaken her for a wallflower and wondered why she was even on the board. Later, I found out the quiet, elegant woman held a degree in ethnology and specialized in Cherokee art and artifacts.

The man across from me spoke up. Willie Foster, decades younger than any of the others except Daniel, was new to the board. He represented one of the Sioux tribes but I couldn't rightly remember which. I offered him a slight smile and he flushed. "I uh, motion to address business tabled from the previous meeting."

"Godammit Willie, we haven't even voted on the minutes yet."

"Oh." He returned the smile and drank from his coffee cup with great concentration while the secretary called a vote on the minutes.

_Robert's Rules of Order_. I stifled a yawn. _Well, something had to structure these meetings_. By the time I had finished my coffee and found a mint in my jacket pocket to stave off the sleepiness, they were back to the tabled business. That seemed to chiefly concern the disposition of my parents' collection and the funds which they had promised toward building the cultural center and piloting its outreach programs.

None of this was new to me. I'd been at the last board meeting and Mama and Daddy had already decided the Society should have the items, which included blankets and a wall hanging woven by a living Comanche artisan, weapons, leather items, and a selection of wood carvings. That collection included bowls, cups, tools, and purely decorative pieces, enough to occupy an entire room in the cultural center. I could think of several other pieces which probably ought to go to the Society as well but those would have to wait until the Rangers released the crime scene. I wasn't under the impression that would be happening any time soon.

"Mr. Chairman, if you please?"

"Mr. Bonner wants to talk. Y'all shut up." Mr. Oster waved the gavel at two younger members who were reading off the same paper from the packets. I couldn't recall their names, but one had known my family, like Bonner. But unlike Bonner, I liked the young woman.

"Distinguished members, I would like to take a moment to address you with my concerns about the Dupree collection." _Oh, here we go_. He wanted those artifacts so badly I imagined I could see it glowing on his face with an unnatural light. I had to admit, he sounded good but it still amounted to the same tired bullshit.

"The items in the Dupree's extensive and beautifully cared-for collection represent a wide range of Native art and craft. Many of these pieces would have succumbed to the elements and to neglect many years ago were it not for the care they've received from our former board member and her husband. I won't dispute their invaluable contributions."

_He's not being nice for no reason. He's going for the throat in a minute._

"However, this does not mean such items ought to remain in storage. The collection embraces several tribes, and these handmade objects should return to their people, as they ought to have when their makers passed away. While they might make an interesting exhibit for the Society, they belong with their people."

I didn't agree with him. The majority of the collection had been bought from curio dealers, some of whom they'd suspected were grave robbers, or from other collectors who had made no such effort. _Could that have been why they were murdered?_ _What do you know about those things?_ _They spent their lives on that collection._

A few of the members nodded in a non-committal way. Mr. Oster spoke up.

"Given th' unfortunate decease of the Duprees, we've got this issue tabled for voting until the meeting next month. Anybody else got something to say?"

I didn't want to oppose Daniel Bonner. Going against him was like reaching into a sidewinder's den, but I couldn't let what he'd said stand. "With all due respect to Mr. Bonner and to the members of the Society, I cannot let the implications made go unaddressed. Every effort has been made to address these concerns. Mama and Daddy often spent months and thousands of dollars attempting to track down the last living relatives of those artisans so that their works could be returned to their families.

"In many cases, there _were_ none living. In others, the families donated them for the specific purpose of allowing them to be on display in the cultural center." I glared across the room at Daniel. "Copies of the affidavits stating as much as well as the certificates of authenticity can be found in the packets." I saw Daniel wince. _Good! He didn't know about that little piece of information. _The board members began rifling through the documentation. The looks of uncertainty they tossed at him were satisfaction enough and I sat back down.

"Ms. Dupree is correct, Mr. Bonner," Mr. Oster admitted. "Everything appears to be legally in order. While I appreciate your concern and diligence, I see no reason not to accept this generous offer."

They voted on it, and my parents' collection was accepted as a donation to be overseen by Mrs. Goodwood and several other representatives from the tribes to be appointed by her. "This isn't over, Kathryn," Daniel snarled at me, just loud enough that only I could hear.

The other items on the agenda went through quickly; most had to be tabled since they involved funds to which I did not have access. By the time the meeting concluded with handshakes and small talk, the sun had set.

"I have to get back," I told Sissy as I excused myself. "I borrowed a car to run my errands today and the Rangers will be expecting me."

Traffic on the expressway seemed heavier than usual for this time of night and, judging from the amount of horn honking, everyone was in a hurry. Karen's little coupe maneuvered through the gaps in traffic well enough, but the clunky SUV which had been behind me for the last three or four miles bothered me. I'd already tried slowing down so whoever it was could get around me, but the driver never passed.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I didn't like this particular section of the beltway; it dropped away steeply to one side and it was under construction. The only protection against going over the side was an extremely flimsy looking plastic barrel barrier. "Come on, go around me." The coupe hit a straightaway with an empty stretch in the surrounding two lanes. Frustrated, I slowed and gestured for the driver to pass.

He didn't pass; instead, he matched speeds and pulled in behind me, within inches of grazing the rear bumper. A feeling of panic filled my heart. I glanced at my cell phone resting in the cup holder but dismissed it as useless. I didn't know Ranger Dillon's number. _I'm probably being paranoid anyhow. Running into Daniel set my nerves on edge._

A thump threw my head back against the headrest. _What _was _that? Did I hit something or lose a tire?_ I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw the same dark wine colored SUV pressed close against my bumper. _What the heck is his problem?_

The vehicle increased its speed and there was a second, harder contact. My head hit the back of the headrest again and I saw stars. _He's trying to ram me off the road. What do I do?_ Frantically, I looked around for a DPS vehicle, a TDOT truck, anyone who might help, but saw nothing.

I drove faster and the driver of the SUV matched my speed. Within seconds, he had the coupe pinned against the barrel barriers. A metal shearing sound echoed in my ears and the next thing I knew, the coupe had been forced through the barrier and was plummeting down the steep embankment. I had no hope of controlling the vehicle at this point and, praying that it didn't roll, I thrust my hands up to protect my face.

_Alex!_

All sound had gone and the car seemed suspended in the air for one crystal clear moment before it began spinning and falling. I made a feeble attempt to grip the steering wheel and guide the vehicle somewhere, anywhere but there didn't seem to be anything to steer. It dawned on me that the wheels weren't touching the ground.

I heard a muffled _*bang* _followed by a smothering sensation and the sound of shattering glass and tearing metal. The coupe's movement abruptly stopped and I blacked out. My last thought was of Ranger Dillon.

_Alex!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 – Alex Dillon**

I would have liked to have gotten the investigation started right away, but Harris had a mid-day class to attend. That leaves me several hours free so I head down to my office. I haven't been here much since my promotion to the Rangers and it's showing signs of neglect.

The desks and book cases sport a thin layer of dust. Thinking about it, I can't remember the last time I sat at my desk...or cleaned it. I keep myself occupied by straightening up the place a bit before Harris comes back. Not that my office is a hell-hole like some I've seen that would need a bulldozer and a couple of HAZ-MAT guys to clean up, but it has its own collection of empty Styrofoam coffee cups, take-out menus, and stacks of old periodicals.

This would be a great room if it had windows, but it's near the labs so it's underground. The nearest thing to a view I have is a photo of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado that I had blown up and framed. I can't abide those motivational posters about teamwork or reaching your goals. I try to keep it light in here. There are overhead fluorescents, but I added daylight bulbs to the desk lamps to help with staring at computer screens for long periods.

When I first took over the office, the previous occupant had furnished it with this modern steel and glass stuff. I got rid of that and moved in some actual wood chairs and desks. I have a lot more desk space than I really need because I thought there would be another lab tech sharing the space. I later learned that it would be _my _choice whether or not to share the work space. So far no one has moved in. Harris is a real possibility, though. The kid is smart, and he's not quite as annoying as I initially thought. If he would lay off the sugary soft drinks he'd probably be even better, but I get the feeling Harris is kin to a hummingbird in that respect.

If I'm going to have Harris working here, he needs his own designated work space. That means archiving some of the stuff I've got laying around. The project which involved me sifting through Dallas phone books for the last several years trying to find a match for a name concluded several months ago; I don't need those any more.

The students they send from the colleges for internships always seem a little disappointed with my digs. I guess they're expecting shelves full of pickled body parts and bones. I know some in my profession have a habit of keeping case souvenirs, but I find the practice morbid. Instead, I have a few Jazz Fest posters on the walls and a collection of vintage Transformers in the book shelves and on the desk. Sometimes I fiddle with them while I'm on hold or listening in on conference calls.

About the time I'm wishing for a cup of coffee, I notice that someone at some point had installed a coffee service in the adjoining conference room. More often than not, that room is festooned with drying paper or blood evidence but we do occasionally use it for team discussion of difficult cases. Karen must have gotten tired of my cobbling together coffee brewers in the lab; she's the only one with the authority to have ordered it. We'd tried bringing in our own coffee pots but they always disappeared. Sometimes we'd get a memo regarding 'unauthorized' equipment in the lab.

I'll have to write her a 'thank you' note; not only is there a fresh pot on, but someone stocked it with my favorite roasts. Several of the gals in our department like to bake so there are usually beignets, cake or cookies set out. This time, it's honey pecan coffee cake, one of my favorites. I pour myself a cup of coffee, snag a piece, and then head back to my office.

I open one of the lower drawers in my desk, where I keep things like condiments, quick soups, and plastic silverware, get the honey, and squeeze a generous portion into my coffee. I don't rightly remember just where I picked up the habit, but I enjoy it better than regular sugar or flavored coffees. It adds just the right bit of sweetness to the bitter roasts I prefer. It's probably something I picked up in college and never saw fit to stop. _Why mess with something that works?_

_Maybe I ought to dust some of this stuff off_. The plants my Ma gave me from her garden are all but dead; I thought I'd watered them recently, but I'd evidently neglected them a few too many times. "It's not like I'm here much these days anyway." _Sorry, Ma. One more thing I didn't do right by for you._

By my fourth cup of coffee, I've restored the office to its usual cluttered but clean condition. I grimace and toss the last cup away; I haven't eaten anything else and the raw, black brew is turning my stomach. I guess I'm a little nervous about inviting Harris into my domain, which is just plain weird. _Maybe I need to get out more often. I'm starting to get punchy around people. _It occurs to me that instead of sitting around the office getting claustrophobic, I could go pick up Harris. He'd probably like that and maybe we could get something to eat on the way back.

I call up to Human Resources. Miriam answers in her typical, clipped way.

"Human Resources."

"Hey, Miriam."

"Hey yourself, stranger. What's up?"

"Got a question – " I pause for a moment and then realize that I don't even know Harris' full name. "My lab assistant is taking some classes?"

She sounds like she's popped her gum. "Sure is."

"I need to know where he is."

"Lemme look here." I can hear the keyboard clicking away. "Yeah, Baylor. He should be in Applied Forensics Lab Techniques. That's in Sam Houston Lecture Hall on the south side of campus. Got what you needed?"

"Yeah, thanks a lot!"

"Sure 'nuff."

She hangs up on me. To be fair, Human Resources is a busy office and Miriam is a no-bullshit woman. The few conversations I've had with her have been cordial, but fast.

I snatch my Stetson off its peg, throw on a windbreaker, and head for my truck. Of course, when I get to the truck, I realize that the passenger seat is full of stuff. Files, a flashlight, just … stuff, like my office. Promising to get myself some sort of filing system, I gather it all up and dump it on the back seat. _I wish I could strap an accordion file to the seat back_. I'm still pondering how to do such a thing by the time I make it out to Baylor. Traffic's not too bad yet, and I just see the usual combination of rusted out junkers with expired tags and shiny Beamers and SUVs borrowed from Mom and Dad cluttering the student parking lots.

Finding a parking place large enough to pull into with this behemoth of a truck proves difficult. Feeling dizzy and a little ill from going around in circles for so long, I finally find a space. It's even near the lecture hall. I've barely taken the keys from the ignition, however, when something attracts my attention. I'm not sure what it is until I hear Harris' raised voice and the voices of several others echoing through the quad. _Shit. He's gotten himself into some sort of jam. I'd better go check it out, he's no good to me as a smear on the pavement!_ Without bothering to lock the vehicle, I slap my Stetson on my head and sprint down the walkway.

"Look, I'm just saying Professor Eberly mixed up the facts. That's not how it gets done in a real crime lab when you're working a case."

I come around the corner and it only takes me a moment to assess the situation. Three of his classmates seem to be watching Harris warily, keeping their distance, but Harris has shrunk back against the wall of the building and he's holding that Mac laptop as though it were a body shield.

"I'm just trying to keep everyone up to date!"

"With this case of yours you can't talk about?" one of them asks.

Harris turns as red as a boiled crawfish. "I'm **NOT** making it up! It's a high profile case and the Rangers don't want it discussed."

The guy who mentioned it is about Harris' size but more robust. The kid, bumping his friend, laughs and scratches his head. The other guy looks more like a football player than a forensics student and it's clear he's leading this little confrontation. The girl stands off to the side, dragging on a cigarette and glaring at the rest of them unhappily. She looks like she'd like to say something to the other two but would rather disappear than cross them.

Harris shoots a pleading look at her. "C'mon, Leslie, your internship is with the county coroner's office. You know I'm right." The girl looks away, pushing her hair out of her face, and gives a slight shake of her head as she edges further away.

I step forward, making certain that the girl and the thinner of the two boys have seen me. Harris' eyes widen in recognition and he swallows nervously but holds his ground. "Dude, it's not that big a deal, you know?" The kid takes a step backward, closer to the girl. Both look like they'll bolt any time now. I flash them both a tight smile, not a nice one, and enjoy their discomfort. I can be intimidating when I want to; I use my height to advantage.

Harris' main tormentor spins on his second. "Listen, Sean, I make this call."

"Just because Harris called Boring Boar on his outdated bull crap?" the girl interrupts. She grinds her cigarette out against the wall and tosses her hair back defiantly. "Sorry, I'm tired of helping you suck that old dinosaur's cock." The girl turns on her toes and moves away. "Harris was right," she calls back over her shoulder. "You'd know that, Dan, if you'd scored high enough in your courses to be assigned an internship in a real lab instead of a practicum!"

"Same here, man. You can bust Harris' chops all you want. I gotta be in class in ten." The other guy walks off, exchanging goodbyes with the girl.

I'd expected the third kid to give up the chase with his audience scattered but he doesn't let up. He towers over poor Harris, who hugs the laptop tighter to his chest and clenches his jaw. "See? N-no one th-thinks you're right. You ought to leave me alone."

"Why? You're an embarrassment to the entire forensics department, riding on your rich parents' influence!" He jabs Harris hard in the shoulder; I wince when I hear his head connecting with the bricks. "What makes you think you know so damned much? No one really believes you work for the Rangers _or_ this bullshit about a top priority case. You've been watching too much _Real Detectives_." He shoves Harris one more time; this time a trickle of blood shows against the boy's pale cheek.

_He doesn't know how to handle the situation, _I realize. _Time to help him out and set this punk straight._

The other two students hadn't gone far when they'd seen me moving in. "Hey, Dan? You're about to get tackled," the girl calls. The other boy looks nervous, perhaps wondering if I'd seen his part in this debacle, but the girl looks relieved and amused. The one called Dan looks up just in time to see me standing a few feet from him. He lets out a startled squawk but doesn't turn Harris loose. Harris, unfortunately, looks as though he's about to pass out.

"Did you see that?" I hear the other boy gasp in awe. "That's a real live Texas Ranger! Harris must have been telling the truth after all."

"Let the boy go," I suggest, resting my hand casually on the butt of the Peacemaker. "That's my intern and lab assistant you're manhandling."

"Wait…what…you…you're ---"

"Yeah," I say, grinning broadly, "Texas Ranger. Also head of Company B's forensics lab. I finished my degree in criminology when you were still in diapers." I pin the scofflaw with a steely glare. "Now let him go and get to wherever you're supposed to be. If I find out you've touched him again…" I let the threat hang as he gathers what little scattered wits he has and scrabbles away.

Harris, on the verge of hyperventilating, sags against the bricks. "Thanks, boss. That was a close one."

"Are you all right?" I drag a handkerchief, crumpled but clean, out of my pocket and wet it in the water fountain. Crouching down beside him, I hold it out. "Here, put this against the cut to stop the bleeding."

I'd been worried, because the sick and hollow sound his head made hitting the brick, that he'd sustained a concussion but he ducks away as I try to get a closer look at the injury. Oddly enough, the boy's reaction makes me feel better about both his physical condition and his mental state. "Ah ain't hurt much. It's just a scratch and she'll do."

"C'mon, Harris, let's get out of here." I stand, he falls in step beside me, and we walk back to the truck. _I wonder how many times he's been cornered and abused when I wasn't there to defend him._

"It's unlocked, just climb in." Sliding behind the wheel, my vision wavers. I lean forward against the steering wheel and close my eyes. My stomach gives an unhappy rumble and, grimacing, I grind my hand into it.

"_You_ all right, boss?" Harris asks, shooting me a questioning glance.

"I'm fine, Harris. It must be the adrenaline wearing off." Trying to bring things back into focus so I can drive safely, I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I feel like hell, though."

"You eaten yet? We could grab something here if you're hungry."

I hadn't, unless you counted four cups of honey sweetened coffee and a piece of cake. _Maybe that's my problem_. "Nah, we'll stop somewhere on the way back. "I don't wanna run into that Neandertal reject classmate of yours or I might lose my temper and do something" I grin "Porter-ish."

Harris hoots with laughter. "Thanks for picking me up," he says as he fastens his seatbelt and I start the truck.

The silence in the cab stretches awkwardly until I pull the truck up onto I-35 northbound and set the cruise control. I spare a glance at my lab assistant; he's huddled against the far side of the cab and seems consumed by mortification. It isn't a good attitude to have when I most need his sharp mind and I am _not_ riding all the way back to Dallas with things like this. "Wanna tell me exactly what happened back there?"

"Ah, you heard most of it," Harris replies evasively as he squirms on the seat.

"Yeah, but tell me what I don't know. What happened in class today? It had to have been _something,_ and a pretty big something at that."

He remains silent, his gaze focused out the window on one of those silly geodesic dome houses painted to look like a doodle bug. I wonder if he will answer at all when he finally takes a deep breath and says. "I…maybe this isn't where I should be, you know? The Texas Rangers…well, they're pretty special any way you look at it and your lab…" Harris fiddles with an unraveling thread on his windbreaker. "That's the assignment everyone wants and for me, of all people, to have gotten it…. It's not like I _brag_ about it, but that's what got me into trouble!"

"So tell me what happened."

"Professor Eberly was talking about collecting latent prints from paper evidence and he mentioned that it needs to be mixed with amyl acetate because pure ninhydrin will sometimes dissolve the ink or completely destroy the evidence." He looks at me for confirmation, doubt in his eyes, and I nodded. "I corrected him and suggested that the risk of using nihydrin in acetone and having evidence destroyed was outweighed by the possible health risks of using the amyl acetate solution. It can be dangerous, _non_?"

"That's right," I encourage him. "The fumes are hell. I don't know anyone who uses that solution now. We certainly don't. A few years ago, I had an intern who was assigned to lift fingerprints from some cardboard produce boxes. She took the boxes outside to minimize the risk of fumes but she sprayed them all directly under the department's central AC unit. The entire section ended up in the ER being treated for severe headaches." He barks a high pitched nervous laugh and I grin. "Well, it's funny now, but it was a big damned mess when it happened. What did your professor say to that?"

"He acknowledged that can happen and that there are some instances where it ought to be mixed with other chemicals. He didn't get it right, though! Professor Eberly recommended iodine fuming. The prints won't be permanent; they'll fade out, destroying them in the process."

I blink, frankly surprised that someone teaching future forensics students would have recommended such an old and unreliable process. "Most law enforcement stopped using that process in the early 1950s. It's only used by intelligence agencies when there's a need to photograph the prints but not leave evidence that someone has examined the documents."

"That's not what got me in trouble, though," Harris says. "It's the presentation of our cases that caused Dan to go ballistic."

"Dan is the jackass who had you cornered?"

"Yeah." Harris sighs. "Dan's convinced I got my internship 'cause of my folks. It isn't true...at least, I don't think it is...is it?"

"No, it's not." My hands grip the steering wheel so tight the knuckles turn white. I don't tell him that Dan had been a candidate for the position and that before Harris had been awarded the internship an intense discussion of his merit based on his parents' influence had indeed taken place. The plain fact of the matter was, his classmate didn't have the necessary grades or qualifications to intern in my lab. _That_ I certainly could tell Harris. "You got your internship because you're good. Besides, your last name isn't Kingston. I wouldn't have known you from Frank Hamer's grandson and you still wouldn't have gotten anywhere near my lab if you weren't competent. I don't suffer fools, lightly or otherwise. Okay?"

"I guess." He doesn't sound convinced.

"Don't doubt yourself. You're one of the few interns I haven't tossed out on his ear before the semester was over and you're one of the only ones I've let actually work a case. Captain Marrin wants to hire you on when you graduate. He's been impressed with your work and your profiling skills." _Shit. _I wasn't supposed to tell him thatbut… _Damnit, the kid needs some reassurance._ _His confidence has been badly shaken._

"Really?" A slow smile erases the pensive look from his face and he looks more like his usual cheerful and brightly irritating self. Just as quickly, however, he droops again. "I'm supposed to present a paper on the procedures used in the latest case to the class next week. You know I can't do that! I'd sooner fake a ruptured appendix; Professor Eberly won't understand and I'll fail the class."

Laughing, I give him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "It won't come to that. I'll phone your professor tomorrow and talk to him. We'll figure out something you can present which won't impact confidentiality."

Harris sighs heavily. "Good. I was worried about what to do. I hate feeling over a barrel like that. Hey, where are we going? Have I been out this way?"

I check the dash clock. _She ought to be home by now. _"Change of plans," I announce. "How'd you like to have a good home cooked meal? My Ma lives in a townhouse out in Rowlett. We'll stop by Ma's and you can meet her. I don't think you have, huh? I want to run some things by her. She knows a lot about the local families. Genealogy's been her passion ever since my Pa died."

"Wow, that's neat. I wonder what that's like, climbing your family tree."

I stare at highway markers going by and try to think of a way I can close the subject without arousing Harris' curiosity. "It's not as much fun as you think," I tell him, surprised by the bitterness in my own voice. "Those are some big shoes to fill."

"At least you got shoes," Harris mutters. I don't think he meant me to overhear, but I can hear the wistfulness. He suddenly looks a lot younger than whatever his age might be, more like one of those homeless adolescents on a street corner in Deep Ellum.

I've never asked him much about himself but I'd always assumed he had enjoyed a good childhood with the family who adopted him. "I'm sorry, Harris. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. It's just that ---" I don't know how to explain to him what it's like when everyone expects you to be like the great "Lost Cause" Dillon or his gunslinger father before him...or the infamous Marshal of Dodge City. I get stomach pains just thinking about it because I know I fall short. Even this stint in the Rangers is only a special commission, not earned on merit but because Kathryn Dupree threw a fit and demanded me.

He continues to look out the side window. "Ah, no worries." I wish I could ask him what's bothering him, but this isn't the time to ask.

"I'm not a hero," I continue quietly, "and that's something you'll just have to come to grips with."

The tension in the silence stretches for what seems like forever before he clears his throat and tries again. "Will…will she mind you just dropping by? I don't want to cause any trouble…."

"Family's what you make it," I continue awkwardly, "and Ma will be glad to have you around. I don't bring many friends home."

I nudge the GMC around the metroplex beltway and then exit onto I-30. The skyscrapers and businesses gave away first to suburbia and then to the fields and ravines of the surrounding farmland. As we near Lake Ray Hubbard, I exit the interstate and follow TX 66. I can understand why my mother moved out here. Rowlett's Main Street remains largely as it had been since the town's founding with its wooden boardwalks in front of weathered brick and pine store fronts. In some places, the hitching posts still stand; most of these now hold bicycles but one of them _does _have a horse tethered to it. Further out, the town sports a modern shopping center, including a Wal-Mart superstore --- the best of both worlds.

The housing development, if you could truly call it that, is situated on the east edge of town. Each ranch style cottage stands on at least a one third acre parcel so occupants could have some privacy. I knew many such places had rigid neighborhood association requirements but, judging from the variety of flora and fauna in the yards, the rules seem rather reasonable.

At the end of the loop in a cul-de-sac, the manicured lawns border on scrub grass and cottonwoods with the occasional scraggly juniper. Harris stares at a soaring hawk while I count house numbers. "That's it --- 910."

Ma is on her knees working in the garden when we pull up. She doesn't turn or look up, absorbed in what's she's doing. Harris bounces out of the cab and I leave the truck unlocked. It's that kind of neighborhood.

A battered straw hat, the one I always remember her wearing when she's gardening, obscures her face and she's dressed in the long denim skirt she probably wore to school. It's paired improbably with a large faded red plaid flannel which must have belonged to my father. Shadows seem long this time of year, and mine falls across Ma and her patch of weeds before I'm close to her. I watch as she pulls a large clump of greens and flings them into a nearby basket.

"Well! Thus ever to dandelions!" I hear her declare. She looks up with a slight smile on her face, but her expression changes as I'm about to say hello. Ma claps the dirt off her gloves and straightens. The color leaves her face and she lifts a hand out. It's a helpless, lost gesture. "Jude?"

Suddenly, I realize how this must look to her. As if I'm standing outside myself, I see my appearance through her eyes: a tall, wiry man wearing faded jeans with curls spilling out from beneath a battered black Stetson; the long sleeved work shirt, freshly pressed, with my badge sparkling in the afternoon sun on the left breast; the hand tooled leather holster with the antlered handle of the Peacemaker resting comfortably at my hip. Yeah, I guess I do look like my Pa. _No wonder she freaked_. I take off my Stetson so she can clearly see my face and stand there, hat in hand. I feel awful about bringing such painful memories to the surface; any moment she'll realize he's gone and then…

Her expression melts from one frankly full of hope to crushed resignation. _No, Ma, I'm not my father_. The color that briefly animated her face drains away, but she smiles anyway. I find myself wishing, though I know I should be thinking of my Ma, that a woman would look at me that way. Such huge love in her eyes, even though he's passed on. _My Pa was a lucky man_.

Harris blinks in confusion, silently begging further instruction. I know he doesn't understand what's happening and I don't want him asking a lot of awkward questions. "Get her a glass of water, Harris. She always keeps a pitcher on the porch." I take her arm. "No, Ma," I say gently, "it's me, Alex."

I haven't talked to her in a while, but I thought she would have already heard about my commission; she still has so many social connections among the Rangers. I certainly hadn't meant to scare her. Harris comes trotting back with the glass of water. "Here you go, ma'am. Uh…do you want to sit down?"

Ma brushes the dirt from her blouse, still looking at me as though she might be seeing things, but she takes the glass from Harris' hand and drains it. Her color seems a little better now and I let her go. When she speaks, there's at least a trace of the usual brisk efficiency in her voice. "Thank you, young man. I'm fine now." She smiles up at me reassuringly. "Alex! Well, give an old lady a kiss, handsome stranger."

Kissing her lightly on the cheek, I say, "What've you been up to, Ma?"

"Oh, the usual --- tending garden, teaching class. Last weekend I was in Kansas City doing some research. You look…." She sighs. "You just look so much like Jude! It frankly surprised me; you'd said you weren't going to try again."

"It's a special commission, Ma," I feel obliged to explain. "I'll tell you all about it later. Can we go inside?"

"Of course," she says, hooking her arm around my waist and hugging me to her. "Tell your friend to grab the basket, would you?"

I'm glad to be inside. Autumn is taking its sweet time getting here and it feels --- to me, at least --- like an inferno outside. The inside of the cottage is cool and airy, though just as full of plants and herbs as the yard and the porch. Wool rugs accent the clean hardwood floors. She doesn't have much in the way of knick-knacks; Ma never did like things cluttered. _She'd absolutely _hate_ my apartment_. Of course the walls are lined with pictures and portraits, mostly ancestors, but there are a few of me and one or two of the three of us as a family.

In the corner, near the fireplace, I spot my favorite chair. The thing is fifty years old if it's a day but with its wide back, deep cushions, and matching ottoman it was the only one which would accommodate me after I got my growth spurt. Suddenly, I want to sit down. The room is out of focus and my head is pounding.

Ma looks down at the grass stains on her skirt and crinkles her nose. "This'll never do! You boys make yourselves at home while I change into some clean clothes. Just put those greens in the sink to soak, hon." She pads down the hallway and I hear the muted sound of water running as a door closes.

"Weeds?" Harris asks, frowning as he empties the basket. "What does your mother want with weeds in her sink?"

"Those aren't weeds, they're probably dinner," I explain, trying to forget my discomfort. "She'll put the greens in a salad or cook them with a slab of bacon. They're actually pretty tasty. Ma's good with plants; she could tell you the uses for just about any plant you could find. See?" I nod towards the herb garden growing on the kitchen counter under a plant light.

Ma reappears a few minutes later wearing a blue checked short sleeved blouse and a clean pair of jeans. She's tying an apron around her waist. "Wow, you grow all this?" Harris asks, gently fingering the plants as though to gauge their health and potency.

"I certainly do," she says, indulging him with a rare but genuine smile. "I don't believe you've introduced me to your friend yet, Alex."

"Harris here works at the lab," I tell her, relaxing. I'm starting to feel half way decent again; it must have been the unseasonal heat combined with lack of food which triggered the dizziness. "He's brilliant, I don't know what I'd without his help."

Harris turns beet red. "Ah, I help out where I can, yanno."

Ma goes into the kitchen and pulls a pie from the oven. I smell cinnamon and apples. "It has to set up for a while." She wags a finger at us. "Don't either of you touch it before then!"

"You'll have to watch him like a hawk, then," I say, winking at Harris. "He loves sugary things, especially pie."

"An apple pie? Like, with apples?"

I groan; Harris' logical mind sometimes causes him to say weird things. My Ma, concerned, raises an eyebrow and takes a half step toward me. _Damn, she must have noticed my misstep earlier._ "Oh, I'm fine, Ma. He just wants to know if it's home made."

Her dimple shows; Ma used to have a wicked sense of humor sometimes but I hadn't seen her use it in a while. "Well, young man, I was going to make one out of house cats, but..." Harris looks horrified and she modifies her approach. "It's a real pie, son," she says gently, "made from scratch. I even picked the apples from the ranch."

"Really? Wow…that has to be good."

"Cats might not make a good pie," I add lazily. "I doubt they'd stay still while baking."

"Too much hair," Ma retorts merrily. "The crust wouldn't set right."

She returns from the kitchen with glasses, which she places on coasters, and then fills them with iced tea. There's a glint of mischief in her eyes, as though she might be teasing Harris. I decide that bringing him here was a good idea, healthy for both of them. I haven't seen my Ma this animated in a long time.

Harris' eyes rove over the photos on the walls and I can practically feel his intense curiosity. There's one of Matt Dillon and Kitty, a copy of which I keep in my bedroom. Ma told me it's the only formal portrait of the couple ever taken; next to it, Ma and Pa's wedding photo. There's only one other showing them together; it was taken right after I was born and Pa is holding me. A few depict what I assume is Dodge City during its glory days as a cattle and railroad town.

"Ma'am." Harris acknowledges my Ma with a quaint little gentlemanly nod as she refills his glass.

"Call me Sam," she corrects as she's refilling our glasses. "All of Alex's friends do." She waves a hand as if to clear the air. "I like him; where did you find this one?"

It occurs to me that I've never asked Harris much about his personal life; I only know what he's chosen to reveal in the course of our conversations. "Hey, Harris, where was it you came from?"

"Baylor?"

"No, I mean originally."

"You've got a trace of the bayou accent," Ma observes. "A bit far north of the Cajun Country, aren't you, hon?"

"Not Cajun, ma'am," Harris protests, squirming. "I'm from a no-count place on the border. I don't even recall the name myself." Never able to be still for long, he bounces up and gravitates toward a cluster of family photos on the mantel.

"Oh my God, that's you?" Harris hoots.

"Awww, Ma," I protest, "out of all the photos you've got, why do you have that one out where everyone can see it?" I point to the one which holds my assistant's interest, one which proudly displays me as a baby sitting on a rocking horse....wearing absolutely nothing except a cowboy hat and chaps.

"Oh man, wait until I tell ..." he catches my eye and says, "absolutely no one about this."

"Good man, Harris," I joke back, "I knew you'd want to live."

He grins nervously. "Are there any more nekkid pics of him around?"

My Ma actually smiles, a real smile which reaches her eyes and turns them an amazing shade of green I remember only from early childhood. "Well, there may be a few others around. You'll just have to explore and see if you can find them."

I sigh and pointedly ignore Harris as he roams from photo to photo, trying to find other indignities captured for posterity. My vision blurs again and the headache intensifies. I close my eyes and hope Ma is too busy discussing photos with Harris to notice. When I was younger, she always seemed to know exactly how I was feeling. I'd hoped she's lost that knack, but a significant glance tells me I'm not getting away with anything.

A hand-drawn map catches Harris' attention. "Where is this?"

"Well, before our family had the ranch there was a small Indian settlement in the area. This was a drawing my great-grandfather did showing where they were in relation to the land he'd bought. See, here's a creek that flowed near the main house." She lifts the frame down carefully.

Harris stares at it for a moment, blinking furiously. "But that's in Arizona, not Dodge City." He jerks his head in the direction of the portrait of the famous US Marshal. "I thought he lived and died there."

_Don't bring that up, Harris, just don't. Dodge is a taboo subject in this family._

"Well, their spread abutted my family's along the northern border."

Harris nods eagerly and asks, "Is it still there? Why don't you live on a ranch now? The boss says the one up near Amarillo still exists."

_Ouch, Harris. You couldn't have asked her a worse question if you'd tried._ I hope he doesn't make her cry.

"The Arizona spread may still be out there. My research hasn't taken me back in that direction for years. I probably ought to plan a trip there this summer." She sighs deeply and replaces the map. "The Amarillo spread---" With the slightest crack in her voice, she says, "But it's a long, sad story and probably best told another time."

"I'm ..." Harris searches for the right word, realizing he touched a nerve.

"Ghosts," she says succinctly, answering his earlier question about the ranch in Amarillo. "No one likes to live with ghosts. There aren't any here."

She's right about that; in fact there's not much of anything here. It looks just as it did when she bought the place. I wonder why Ma seems to have put her life on hold since Pa died and just what would cause her to move forward. Not me. I'm stuck in Jude's shadow whether I like it or not...and, I discover, I don't. I'm not Jude Dillon. I can't be. _I have a hard enough time being Jude Dillon's only son._

"Ghosts? Real ones?" Harris seems to have missed the point.

"Harris," I warn, an edge in my voice, "it might be wise to drop that line of questioning, okay?"

"Oh. Oh! Yeah, sorry." He stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"No matter," Ma responds, fanning her apron in a shooing gesture. "No more questions, young Harris. I think now might be a good time for some pie." She retreats to the kitchen and I hear her humming an old country song which Pa loved as she gets plates down from the cupboards and silverware from the drawer.

"This is cool - all these pictures! How long has Ma Dillon been collecting this stuff?"

"We were always a photogenic family," I say with a half smile. _Wish my head would quit pounding. What the hell is wrong with me?_ "She didn't start collecting the historical photos until after my Pa died. I guess it makes her feel connected to him in some way." I rub my temples. "She's got more in a file. Her genealogical work is really impressive."

Harris casts a nervous glance at me. "You sure Dan didn't hurt you none?" He looks away, embarrassed. "I...I wasn't exactly paying much attention. I didn't have your back."

I nod. "I'm okay, I think I need a little more sleep than I've been getting. You did just fine, Harris."

He tentatively scrabbles at my sleeve; it's like being ensnared with cobwebs. "Eat somethin', boss. It'll make a whole world of difference and ah know ya haven't even had lunch."

"Sure, maybe so." I half pat, half swat his hand. I'm not used to friendly affection but Harris seems to have a habit of touching or patting people when he's talking; it must be those Cajun roots he keeps denying. _He sure didn't get it from the Kingstons. I'd be mighty surprised if they treated him as anything other than a social symbol of their generosity. _ "I'll be all right." Happily Ma comes back with the pie.

She must have put an entire quarter of the pie on Harris' plate, complete two scoops of vanilla ice cream; it barely fits on the delicate china plate. "Food for that big brain my son says you have," she explains, seeing his wide eyed expression.

"Thanks, Ma Dillon." Harris digs into the pie immediately. He has the sense to look a bit apologetic when he asks, "Do you have some sugar?"

"Harris…."

"Oh, leave the boy be, Alex," Ma says as she nudges the sugar bowl across the coffee table.

I eye my own plate. It's a smaller slice than usual --- _damn, she's onto me!_ --- still formidable from the point of view of a guy who suddenly wants nothing to do with food ever again. They're both watching me so I pick up my fork and mash it around on the plate, trying to make it look eaten. Finally, I take a small bite. Ma's expression is clear. _She knows that trick. Damn_.

Harris has already swallowed a sizable chunk. "Wow, this is good. Boss, you didn't tell me ya Ma made pie like dis."

"She's a very good cook," I say absently. Smaller bits with almost imperceptible flavor seem to do the trick but Ma's still watching and she knows I don't usually eat like that. I glare at them both. _Well, it's getting eaten, isn't it?_

It takes me almost twenty minutes to make that damned slice of pie disappear. I leave the crust, which I've never liked, and fervently wish that my cell phone would ring. _Why is it that when you want a nice burglary or assault all the criminals are off napping?_ I don't even want to think about dinner, which I am also going to have to eat. _She doesn't even have any potted plants near the dining room table_. The thought is so ludicrous --- I'm a grown man, plotting ways to make dinner disappear without eating it --- that I have to smile.

"We gotta visit wit'cha Ma more often if I'm gonna get fed like this."

"I'll be glad to have you boys any time," Ma tells him warmly. I know she really means that and I hope Harris understands; she hasn't smiled or laughed like that in years.

This isn't the ranch, but I'm comfortable here because it's Ma's house. Normally I'd be offering to fix things around the house, help her with a project, or just keep her company but frankly, I still feel like hell. I'm lulled by the companionable blend of their voices; Harris' tenor floats up in the occasional question while my Ma answers patiently

Ma stands and brushes her hands across her jeans; denim whispers and dishes clank as she gathers them up. "Reckon I ought to start some dinner. I think" she smiles at both of us "you boys could use some."

Harris seems at a loss for what to do with himself. I can feel him tentatively scrabbling at my sleeve again, like a persistent dog. "Hey boss, I guess that chair's pretty comfortable, huh?"

"Yeah, it is. It's been my favorite since I was a kid." The headache is becoming a technicolor firestorm behind my eyes. I wish he'd quit talking to me but…Harris is Harris. I run a hand through my hair, rumpling my curls in frustration. "Doesn't Ma need some help in the kitchen?" I ask, a little desperately.

"Oh - sure. Probably does. I'll be right back." He disappears into the kitchen. _Good. Let her deal with his incessant chatter for a while_. I shake my head. The thought sounds churlish, even to me. _Just what's your problem, Dillon? You actually like the little geek, quit treating him like a gnat needing swatted._

I mentally gauge the distance between the recliner and the hallway leading to the guest bathroom. Ma usually keeps some aspirin in her medicine cabinet. _Nope, not gonna happen_. I'd fall flat on my face and then I'd have to explain what I was going after in the first place. Last thing I need is both of them fussing at me. It briefly occurs to me maybe I ought to phone in with Porter and see how Kat's coping but it's just more stress I don't need. I'd left him a note and told Karen where I was going. _That's good enough_.

"I don't have a dishwasher," Ma tells Harris. "Here's a towel; I'll wash and you can dry. Alex seems debilitated. You're sure he's not ill?" my Ma gently probes. "I've never seen him nap, even as an infant."

"I'm just a little tired, that's all." _Sure, and Austin is a wide spot in the road for bluegrass musicians. Sick? I don't_ get_ sick. I can't afford it. _I close my eyes again, cradled in the familiar comfort of the old upholstery. The dishes rattle as Ma puts them into the sink. Lemon scent from the dish soap she likes to use drifts into the living room. Normally I don't mind it; today it uncomfortably turns my stomach. I burrow further into my chair, inhaling the dusky scent of long occupation and old furniture polish.

Harris pushes his hair back out of his eyes. "Boss never done that a'fore, not 'round me anyhow."

"He was always restless as a child," Ma reminisces. I can hear the frown in her voice. "He never would go down for a nap and I can't see him doing it now. He's certainly not drunk."

"No, ma'am, not the boss!" Harris hastily assures her. I can tell from the tone of her voice that Ma is teasing him again, but Harris hasn't known her long enough to detect the difference. He sounds absolutely scandalized as he clarifies, "We just had cold drinks on the way back from Baylor."

"I know, hon, I was making a joke." She smiles and pats him. "_Something_ is going on with him though; he never sleeps like that. Here, put these placemats out, please."

Harris spreads the woven mats out and adjusts the simple white cloth on the table, while watching me with one eye. "Man," he mumbles, "He straight up sleepin'! And it ain't even dark."

"I'm _not_ asleep," I say, just clearly enough for him to hear. "I'm resting my eyes. It's been a long damned day."

"Oh! Course you are. Well, we eatin' soon, too. Got some more stuff to set out!" Thankfully he goes back around the breakfast bar into the kitchen.

"Not really hungry," I respond. _Damn, I didn't mean to say that. He's gonna be all over that_.

If it's at all possible, Harris' accent becomes thicker and more annoying. "You not hungry? Your Ma cooks like nobody's business. This'd make a dead man hungry."

I turn my head away. My nose works fine; unfortunately the rest of my body is telling it to bugger off. "I guess I'm dead then."

He laughs, remarkably at ease. _I wish he'd unwind a bit in the lab. I like him better when he's not hyper and anxious._ My fault, really. I haven't made any effort to get to know him or make him more comfortable with me. "Alex is dead, he says I can have his plate."

"Ma," I plead, "couldn't you keep him distracted for a minute or fifteen? I'd really like..." _What? To curl up somewhere and die?_ That's what it feels like.

A pan of rolls in her hand, she peers at me over the breakfast bar. "What, son?"

I think I can get away with pleading a headache; it's nothing less than the truth and she doesn't need to know that I feel as if the next small sound or movement is going to send my head rolling off my shoulders. "...some aspirin," I finish. "Too much time spent staring at a computer screen today."

"Oh, yeah, I been there." Harris nods. "Those screens will make your eyes feel like they gonna explode. Might've been on account of the fight you had with Porter too."

"Where did you hear that?" I ask, sitting up sharply. I'd thought Porter and I had handled our differences discreetly enough; my injuries weren't visible and his personality was such that a day he _didn't_ show up with some mark of fighting on him would have been unusual.

"I was there when you came in with Miss Kat, helped you get her up to Doc Boyd's office. It doesn't take a profiler to see you favoring your ribs and Porter sporting a black eye and figure out what happened. Doc Boyd also leaves his door open," Harris admits as he gives the potatoes he's mashing an extra hard jab, "and I heard him say Porter 'bout snapped your ribs clean in two!" He whistles. "Whew! I wouldn't want to take on Porter; he don't look like he'd fight fair."

I hear Ma slapping a wooden spoon against cast iron. "Doctor Boyd said _what_?"

Harris has the balls to give me a hangdog "I'm sorry" look before it's replaced by a stubborn set to his mouth. "Porter broke two of the boss' ribs. Doc wanted me to make sure he'd use the pain medication if'n he needed it." He shakes his head again in disapproval. "He won't. The boss don't like his thinking clouded."

"That sounds about right," Ma says noncommittally. The look she shoots my way doesn't bode well if she gets a moment alone with me.

"I have to drive," I say defensively. "Harris doesn't know how to drive a stick shift." _At least, I hope he doesn't_. I've never seen him with a car, actually, and he didn't have one when I picked him up. _He must commute or take the bus_. "Look, Ma, it's no big deal. Porter won't do something like that again and it doesn't hurt much." I'm not going to tell her that it's like having a knife ground into your side.

"Much?" She sighs. "Well, if it does start to hurt _much_ then you take it easy." She turns to Harris and points a spatula at him. "Make sure he does. My son has an amazing capacity for self-neglect."

"Not around us!" Harris chirps and I want to strangle him. "We look out for our own. The other techs and I make sure of that. We all take turns going down to the local taco wagon for meals. I always make sure the boss has something to eat if he can't leave."

_Crap. Harris did _not_ just tell my Ma that we routinely eat from a place she would scornfully refer to as a 'roach coach'._

"You boys eat from those things?" Yeah, she's mad, all right. Her voice just rose a few decibels and I'll bet Ma's got that prim, pinched expression she uses when I've done something she considers extremely stupid.

"It's not too bad," Harris says, probably taken aback by her reaction. I hadn't had time to warn him that in addition to having vast herbal knowledge, my Ma was also a health nut. She believes that wholesome, simple foods can fix almost anything. "Mateo runs a clean place, the food is a little greasy is all."

"Well, I'll be happy to cook you boys a proper meal any time you want to stop by," Ma says firmly, sounding as if anyone who would pass up such an offer might be missing a few screws. She'd be right too; Ma's a good cook in spite of her insistence on fresh, healthy ingredients.

"I could maybe pry the boss outa the lab a couple times a week," Harris says, sounding pleased. "You do live out a bit, Ma Dillon, but I like it here." Outside the sliding glass door a blur of movement catches both our attention; a humming bird hovers around. It bumps the glass and Harris flinches.

"They come for the vines and fight over them," Ma says. "Slide the door open to get rid of the reflection. They're smart enough not to fly inside --- no nectar to attract them --- and he'll stop trying to hurt himself."

Entranced by the small creature's frenetic movements, Harris quietly slides the door open and waits. The tiny bird attacks a few blooms and flies up to eye level, hovering as though looking inside before zooming off. "Aww, that was cute. What was it?" Harris asks. I can't resist comparing my lab assistant, with his love of all things sugary, to the brazen little bird which had just visited.

"It's just a ruby throated hummer. The girls are very common," Ma responds as she stirs something on the stove top.

"Never seen one," Harris says. "They like sugar, huh?"

"What's the matter, Harris, afraid they'll drink your stash?" I say, smiling weakly and attempting to rejoin the conversation.

"Oh no! My Mountain Dew!" He starts laughing. "I guess they can't pop cans without thumbs, though."

"Don't feed them soda," Ma corrects. "I'll send some nectar and a small feeder home with you. You can make the nectar on your own, you know. Just use one part water to four parts sugar and a ruby tinted feeder."

"You would? I could? Oh, thanks! Hey, boss, Ma Dillon is giving me a hummer feeder. I like 'em," Harris declares. "Pretty little things with so much energy!"

_That could be Harris_, I think, _with a sugar high_. Another one hums around the patio and bumps a red-painted Buddha statue a few times. _Yep. It's Harris_.

"Alex...are you giggling?" Ma asks incredulously.

"No, I'm ..." I try to cough and don't quite make it. "I'm okay!" _If that hummer tries to get nectar out of Buddha's belly button one more time, I'm going to lose it_. Unfortunately, the little thing keeps trying. Exactly _like Harris_.

"What's the joke, boss? What's so funny?"

I'm lying on my back and laughing, but I manage to point. "Buddha ..." Harris looks confused.

"Alex," Ma says, hands on her hips, "honestly..." Her eyes are twinkling and her mouth is twitching; I can see she's trying hard not to laugh at him either. She probably knows exactly what I'm thinking. The bird gently bumps the glass a few times. "Silly thing, shoo! There are flowers right there!" Ma waves at it; it hovers, then vanishes.

"Shoo...Oh, Lord..." I'm still laughing. There were times when I wish I could have shooed Harris like that.

"That's better," my Ma declares with satisfaction, as if my crack-up relieved her mind of something. She goes back into the kitchen and I hear her asking Harris about a roux. "I always seem to burn mine before it reaches the brick stage."

"Ah ain't much of a cook, Ma Dillon," Harris responds, "but I kin show ya how t' make that roux proper. T'ain't much difference a-tween a gumbo an' a gravy."

"You know how to make a gumbo?" Ma asks. I can tell she really wants that recipe.

"It's the only thing I _do_ know how to cook. Cain't grow up as ah did and _not_ know."

_That's as close as I've ever heard him come to admitting he's Cajun._

Some time during the food preparations, I do actually fall asleep. Next thing I know, Ma is gently shaking me by the shoulder. "Come to supper, son. We're about ready to eat."

We've always eaten at the dining room table. Even after we got television, it was that way. Ma would turn the television off and I'd help her set the table. We'd all sit down, say grace, and then take turns talking about our day. I see she's kept the same dining set from the ranch. It's an old farmhouse table with oak butcher block top, white painted legs, and sturdy ladder back chairs.

I head toward the kitchen, wanting to help Ma get the dishes on the table, but suddenly I'm dizzy. I grab the back of the chair and blink, trying to clear my vision, but it doesn't clear this time. _Just great_.

Ma turns on her heel and is at my side instantly, a hand on my arm. "Alex! You said you were feeling all right. Sit down."

"Just tired, Ma," I mutter, feeling embarrassed. "It's been a long day and it's a hard case, as I'm sure Harris has told you." _What the hell....? I didn't think Porter had hurt me _that_ badly._

"It sounds like it. Sit _down_." She almost shoves me into my chair. "Stay put, I'll get you some water." I start to say I don't feel like it, but I give up.

"That was a close one," Harris whispers. "Ain't seen you get that bad. You okay?"

I glare at Harris. "I'm _fine_. It's been a long couple of days and being trounced by Porter hasn't helped." Seeing him wince at the sharp tone in my voice, I relent. "Maybe I'd better dig that bottle of painkillers Dr. Boyd gave me out and have a look."

"I think you left 'em in the truck. Want me to go look?"

"Yeah." My voice sounds tired and weak, even to me. "You do that. Harris? _Can_ you drive a stick?"

"Um ..." He chews on his lower lip. "I think I remember how. Been a while though."

"Just wanted to know." It _can't_ come to that; I have to get back to the lab. We have so much to do and Captain Marrin will want our findings by tomorrow morning at the latest. It's _not_ going to come to that because I have no real intention of taking the damned pills. I'm hoping that at least looking at the bottle will make both of them leave me alone. _Maybe I do need more rest. I'm not usually this grouchy_. I find myself hoping that I can knock off early tonight and go to bed at a decent hour.

They both converge on me at the same time. The water seems to help, as I'm horribly thirsty, but I'm still dubious about the pills. They're narcotics; I recognize the name and my mind automatically starts parsing out the formula: constituent chemicals, what each one does in the blood, how it looks on a mass spectrometer…

"Shouldn't mess with you too bad," Harris says, evidently having performed the same mental analysis. "They're mostly aspirin."

"Just take them, son," Ma says. That, and nothing else, decides me. Knowing how Ma feels about natural remedies, if she's telling me to take something then I must look as though I need it. She doesn't allow me to help her with the serving either; instead she insists I sit quietly while she takes care of the plates from the sideboard and puts them on the table.

I've eaten in food of dubious quality lots of time, sometimes to my regret, but one of Ma's meals has never been one of them. So why the hell don't I feel like eating? She's obviously gone to a great deal of trouble and cooked all my favorites with an eye toward someone who might not be feeling well; Harris' portions are twice the size of mine and Ma has gone easy on dishes like the greens which wouldn't digest easily. Even so, I feel queasy and unsettled every time I take a bite. Fortunately, Harris keeps the conversation from lagging so I can concentrate on getting the food down and making it stay there.

"…so now they have us working this murder case…" Harris, exhibiting an unusual amount of tact for him, tells her about the general details of the Dupree case and our involvement thus far. He carefully avoids graphic descriptions or telling about sensitive information which could provide breaks in the case later.

She sits across the table sipping a cup of coffee, rich with cream, and considers what he's told her so far. "Now this is an interesting story you boys have."

"Any ideas on this?" I ask her. "I know there are some eminent domain issues going on, but I can't see how exactly it rises to the level of murder."

"The Duprees do go back quite a ways. They've had a lot of holdings over the years, land and real property, too." She looks at something beyond my head, in the distance. "There was all that flap with the artifacts. I can understand that the people would want their things, but someone had to sell it off, I figure. Like the old pawn turquoise – the people needed the money, but it's a shame to see something that valuable go. On the other side of it, I've bought a lot of that old jewelry myself." She had, too. She had an entire jewelry case dedicated to those old pieces of turquoise and silver. "The Duprees were one of the few collectors who actually made the effort to track down families in order to either return the ancestral artifacts or get permission for them to be displayed educationally."

"I think," she says after being silent a few minutes, "that either the artifacts or the land disputes would be the place to look. The murders sound" she shivers and wraps her arms round herself "rather personal. Hopefully whatever the murderer hoped to accomplish ended with their deaths."

"There's still one Dupree left," Harris reminds us. "Ah grew up wit' her livin' practically next door. Kat was the big sister I should've had. The Kingstons, they good folks, but...ah ain't what was expected, I think. Kat, she never expected me to be anything but me."

I sit forward in my chair. "You _know_ Ms. Dupree?" Damn it, this could blow the case right out of the water. _How much evidence has Harris handled? Is his connection enough to make it inadmissible?_ My already unhappy stomach winds itself into a tight knot.

Ma perks up. "You knew her as a child? Alex, you didn't mention this to me."

"I didn't know," I say tightly, absently rubbing my stomach, "and it's going to cause problems." I pin Harris with an annoyed glare. He clearly knows what I'm thinking about and the freckles stand out against his pale face. "When were you planning on telling me you were connected to the Duprees?"

"Um, I was just a kid ... boss." He seems to shrink. "You know, like ten."

I rub my eyes. _I can't believe this is happening - so many connections_. Louisiana is apparently really a small town.

"How long" and I try hard to keep the bitter, angry edge out of my voice "how long has it been since you've seen her?"

"Well, like, earlier today."

The throbbing behind my eyes gets stronger. "Quit being so damned literal. I mean, what's your current relationship to her?"

He blinks and looks shocked. "I hadn't seen her for years until now. I mean, maybe high school. She was there at my graduation."

_Another damned thing to check on, something I should have been told about the case but no one saw fit to mention_. I sigh. "I can't work a case if people don't give me the information I need! Any other bomb shells you want to toss my way?"

Harris looks intimidated, like he's about to cry. Part of me feels bad about that but the rest of me doesn't care. _He jeopardized a case. _My Ma glares at me; she's clearly not happy with my behavior and puzzled by it. _Well, that makes two of us. I'm crankier than a horn toad on a hot highway. _I rein in my temper and nod encouragingly. "Go ahead, Harris, I need to know."

"I mean, we were friends, now I just sort of know her. We kinda lost touch when she went away to college but she still sends me Christmas cards and remembers my birthday. "

Again, I'm suddenly struck by an unexpected series of images: Harris, lost and alone, speaking no English but trying to fit in with a rich, influential family; Kat, with her free will and disregard for societal opinion, acting as guardian and comforter. "I think I understand, Harris. You don't need to say any more."

He looks confused and hurt, but Ma takes his hand. "Your Captain runs background checks on all your lab interns," Ma reminds me with a reproachful look. "I'm sure Hector knows about it and this isn't a problem. Why don't you call the office if it will set your mind at ease?"

"Yeah, I should know that. I'll do so."

I know she's waiting for me to apologize to Harris, but that's the best I can do right now. I'm not good with words, especially apologies. I'll make it up to him later with a box of his favorite Japanese confection..._Pocky, that's what it's called._ _Ugh. Disgustingly sweet stuff._ My stomach does a barrel roll but I can't even escape the thought of food, not with my dinner still in front of me.

I've barely touched the baked chicken, though Ma had taken the skin off mine and reserved the sauce it had been cooked in. I eye the macaroni and cheese, partially eaten, and the mashed potatoes and gravy, most of which I'd managed to eat. Catching Ma's critical eye, I pick up my silverware and raise another forkful to my lips. My throat locks up and I know I can't swallow it. In fact, I'm going to need to remove myself from the table pretty damned quick.

The stomach pain takes me by surprise; until now, I've dealt with persistent nausea and a vague sense of discomfort. This _hurts_, worse than the time my appendix burst when I was ten. I drop my fork and it clatters noisily to the plate. Both Ma and Harris break off their conversation to glance at me in concern. I can feel myself breaking out in a sweat. I need to leave _now_.

When I was a kid, you simply didn't get up from the dinner table until your plate had been cleared and you'd been excused. To do so would have been a grave breech of family etiquette. I know even now my Ma wouldn't stand for such rudeness, not without an explanation…and explanation I am absolutely certain I won't have time to give if I don't want to embarrass myself.

"Ma, I…."

"Alexander Dillon, you may be excused," she says sharply, just as if I hadn't suddenly pushed my chair back from the table and jerked to my feet. Harris looks as though he'd like to follow suit but she addresses him just as sharply, "Harris, why don't you help me clear the table and put the leftovers away?" The tone of Ma's voice leaves no room for argument.

I slink off to the guest bathroom and, closing the door behind me, slide to the floor. Once I start gagging, I can't stop. Some time later, sitting with my back against the wall and my head resting on my knees, I hear a knock. I can't really answer and a moment later, my Ma opens the door. "Alex." She gives a kind of dismayed gasp.

"I'm fine, Ma," I say, trying to sound convincing. My throat burns with acid and consequently my voice comes out as a raspy whisper. My stomach cramps again, forcing me to wrap both arms around it and lean forward. She obviously doesn't believe a word I've said and I can't really blame her.

"No, you're not, don't even try lying to me. Let me look at you." Ma kneels down beside me, peering first into my eyes and then laying a hand against my cheek. "No fever. What _is _wrong with you, Alexander Dillon?" She's running fingers through my hair, over my scalp…checking for a head injury, I suppose.

"Porter didn't hit me in the head," I say wearily. "He caught me in a bear hug and straddled me. That's how my ribs got broken."

"That's ridiculous!" Ma bristles and then busies herself soaking a washcloth in cool water for me. "However, you're right. It has nothing to do with what's going on now. What is _wrong_ with you?" she asks again but she's not really talking to me now. She's worried. "Have you seen anyone about this, talked with Doc Boyd?" Ma puts the cloth against the back of my neck. I sigh and lean into her, just as I used to when I was much younger. She stands a while, supporting me, her hand idly playing through my curls. She's not going to baby me, a fact for which I'm profoundly grateful, but she knows what I need.

"Nope," I say, too shaky and ill to come up with a more devious response. "Kat Dupree is my first priority and she needed seen; I was called up to Captain Marrin's office immediately afterward. Besides, I can't afford to have Porter thinking I can't handle the stress of a high priority case."

"That man…." Ma makes a rude noise and I can tell she's going to have some choice things to say to the Captain next time she sees him. "Well, it sure isn't food poisoning…and it's definitely not stress," she says with a mother's absolute certainty. That makes me feel a tiny bit better; she's never been shy about telling me when I've overestimated my abilities. Her lips purse as she thinks. "Not like the episodes you had as a boy?"

That's a question, one she expects me to answer, and I give it due consideration. Finally I shake my head. "No…not even close." I'd been somewhat delicate as a kid but those had been the standard upsets you might expect during any childhood. "Just didn't feel right for most of today. Nothing going around the office," I add helpfully, even though I know it will worry her still more.

"You can handle the case," she says so adamantly that I can practically feel the presence of my father in the room. _Mighty big shoes to fill_, as I'd told Harris, _but there are times when it comes in handy. _"I can't put my hand to what's wrong, but something isn't right. You need a doctor."

"No way! Look, Ma, my head is killing me. It's probably just a migraine." I do get them on occasion, but I'm hoping she won't remember my tendency to run a low grade fever when I'm tired. Ma had already said I didn't have one. "I haven't exactly seen much of my bed lately."

She considers and then seems to accept that explanation. "Well then, go lie down. You can sleep in my bed."

I know she'll be suggesting we stay the night if I accept and I _have _to get back to the lab. "If you don't mind, I'll just lay in my chair for a bit and listen to the game. Harris can drive us home."

"I don't mind that, but can he drive your stick shift? I haven't driven one in ages."

"I suppose so. There isn't much Harris can't do when he puts his mind to it and he says he's driven one before." I don't want my Ma driving us all the way back to my place. Besides, I have no intention of going to bed when I finally get there. I still have to go over that packet of crime scene photos and reports which Captain Marrin had given me.

Ma takes the washcloth back, wrings it out, and then rinses it in cool water again. She hands it to me; I wipe my face and that seems to help. My gait is decidedly unsteady as I pull myself up off the bathroom floor and my stomach has by no means decided whether I should even be leaving in the first place. She reaches up, pats my cheek, and then wraps her arm around my waist. "You rest, son. I'll fix you some peppermint tea."

"That would be good, Ma," I say, smiling as best I can.

My Ma's a strong woman; if she hadn't had to haul my Pa around a few times, there wouldn't have been any way we could have made it back to the living room. She settles me in my chair, dims the lights, and then turns on the small transistor radio she keeps on the breakfast bar. The roar of the crowd greets me; the Cowboys are down by seven and they just fumbled…again. I close my eyes and try to let the sounds of the game distract me from how I'm feeling.

I'm almost asleep when I hear a soft shuffling of footsteps and Ma's voice raised in warning. "Harris, hon, leave him be. He needs to rest." I open my eyes and see Harris, his shirt sleeves rolled up and an apron tied around his waist, spreading one of Ma's afghans over me. His eyes, beneath those coke bottle glasses he wears, darken with worry.

"You shiverin' hard, boss," he explains. "Reckoned you might be cold."

"Thanks, Harris," I say. I hadn't noticed until he mentioned it how tightly my jaw is locked to keep my teeth from chattering. I huddle into the blanket, which is in shaggy hues of moss and rust. "I still feel pretty lousy. Let me rest up a bit and when the game is over you can drive us home, huh?"

"No worries," he responds cheerfully, "Ah'm aisy. Me an' yer Ma can chat it up while you're napping. You rest yourself now."

I had meant to pay attention to the game but I guess I fell asleep; when I wake up, it's fourth quarter and the Cowboys are up by three. Harris sits down on the couch across from me. He sees I'm awake and brightens noticeably. "I been in and out, but I didn't catch the teams. Who they playin', boss?"

It takes me a moment to collect my wits enough to answer him. "Oh, um, the Chargers. San Diego." I run my tongue around my mouth, which feels sticky-dry. "I could use some water." I try getting up, but Harris jumps out of his seat and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Alexander Dillon, you stay put!" Ma commands as she comes out of the kitchen with a mug of peppermint tea. I lay back and inhale deeply; it's sharp and fresh, a clean healing scent. I know that the tea leaves came from her own stock and smile appreciatively.

"Thanks, Ma." She sets a pot of honey on the end table beside me and I pour a generous dollop of it into the tea. Harris stares.

"Don't you be razzing me 'bout my sugar habits, boss. You just as bad."

"It's not processed, Harris. It's local, like from next door."

Ma beams at me. That's right, it's honey from Mr. Ron's bee hives. I planted the herbs and flowers and he gives me the honey."

"Sugar's sugar," Harris insists. "I don't wanna hear no more 'bout how much sugar I eat when you just put half the container in your tea."

"Yeah, well, this is good stuff." The tea seems to clear my head a bit. "Harris, where's my cell phone? I ought to check in with Kat and see how she's coping. She and Porter don't exactly get along."

"I haven't seen your phone, boss," Harris responds, chewing his lip --- a sure sign he's evading the truth.

"Harris."

He turns bright red; yep, I've caught him in a fib. "I just thought…well…"

I take another sip of tea and set the mug down on a coaster. "You thought what, Harris? Where's my damned cell phone?"

"Your Ma got your phone," he responds with a chipper smile and ducks back into the kitchen.

I'm about to ream him for playing games when Ma, her mouth pinched in a tight line, says, "I've got it in my apron pocket, Alex, and you'll do no such thing. The only thing you're doing is going home to bed."

"Ma…I need to check in with headquarters and make sure Kat's all right."

She bats my hand away and pats her apron pocket. "You're not getting it back until it's time to leave so just be a good boy and drink your tea."

"What you worryin' for, boss? Kat's wit' Porter an' he's a Ranger. Ain't nothin' gonna happen." Harris buries himself back in one of the many books Ma has laying about which address the subject of Texas history.

Chugging the rest of my tea won't do me good; I'd probably just get sick again and then neither of them would let me leave. Instead I reply, "I _know_ Kat's with Porter, but she doesn't like him. I got the distinct impression she's afraid of him for some reason."

"Oh, dear," Ma says, rocking back in her chair, "I hadn't realized you boys had left her alone with him. Those two have a history."

_That's new to me_. "She does? With Porter?"

Ma chews thoughtfully on a fingernail before she answers. "It was bad, I remember that much. Nearly cost him his badge. There'd been some death threats and the Rangers were requested to guard the family. The gossip in the department was that he'd kissed her and tried to sexually assault her. Porter insisted that she simply panicked during a thunderstorm. When the lights went out, of course they had to consider the possibility of an intruder and his first instinct was to cover her. She took it wrong, I think." Her lips thin. "Dennis Porter is many things but he loves that badge and the law. I don't think he'd have risked that."

I'd had no clue about this. _No wonder Kat doesn't like Porter and he returned the favor_. I had to agree with Ma, though. Porter wouldn't jeopardize his career that way. "That's amazing. I hadn't heard a word of it."

"You wouldn't have, it happened long before you joined DPS. I reckon the Duprees had enough influence to keep it quiet. I can understand that," she says, more quietly. "That daughter of theirs was always something special. Some people born to money act like it; she never did."

I want to ask Ma more questions, give her a few more details of the case and find out what she thinks about this mess, but my attention isn't where it should be. Right now I'm more interested in holding onto my innards, which seem to have decided playing tag with my tonsils is a fun game. It's a battle I'm destined to lose. I jump up, headed back for the bathroom, leaving Harris to catch the mug before it falls to the floor and shatters. "Outa my way," I growl when he would have stopped me.

"Alex! Oh…oh, DAMN!" my mother swears as I slam the door.

I hate this, I really do, this complete lack of control. _Ma's gonna worry, Harris is gonna fuss…and just what the hell did peppermint tea with honey in it do to offend me anyhow?_

"Don't worry, Ma Dillon, I got this," I hear Harris say as his footsteps approach. Moments later, he taps gently on the door. "You okay, boss?"

Between dry heaves, I try to answer him. "Not really, Harris." I gag again and it's some time before I can keep talking. "I'm sorry, but I think when I'm done here I will be." I manage to put a grin into my voice. "Better out than in, you know."

There's a sympathetic timbre to his voice. "Yeah, I hear that."

"Go…keep Ma occupied." I'm not really interested in talking to anyone right now and I just want him to go away.

"All righty. Holler if you need me." He shuffles off and I can hear him in muted conversation with Ma in the next room. "Only been that sick once, in Kabul after our water rations got contaminated…." He starts spinning a story which catches her attention and distracts her so I'm left in peace. I tune them out and concentrate on getting over the next wave of cramps while not passing out.

When I wobble my way back to the living room, both of them have the guilty looks of people who have been discussing me behind my back. I feel too awful to pursue it. "I'm sorry, Ma, but I think I'm gonna have to cut this short. Harris'll take me home and I'm going right to bed."

_Liar_. My Pa wouldn't have been deterred by some little bug and I'm not going to be either. Even so, it takes most of my energy to pull on my windbreaker and set my hat back on my head. Ma collars me and slips a box of tea with some packets of medicinals into my pocket.

"What are these, Ma?"

She flashes me a sad smile and I wince; I hate causing her any sorrow and I know she's still worrying about me. "They're things which might come in useful, son…more peppermint tea, some candied ginger, some fennel. Go home and go to bed." She stands on her toes and kisses me on the cheek. "This case will wait a few hours while you sleep."

It's hard to lie to your mother when she's looking you in the eye like that. _Time for a diversion, Dillon_. "I promise I'll go home and go to bed," I say again. _After all, I didn't tell her I'd do it right away_.

"Harris? Make sure he goes to bed. I'm his Ma, but I can't make him go to bed anymore." She gives me a hard look. "And if you _do_ stay up, son?"

"It'll be through no choice of my own." That, at least, is true. I have to keep working this case no matter how it inconveniences me personally. Captain Marrin is expecting results soon and I'd better be able to produce them.

"Well, if you do, I want you to do something for me."

"If it's in my power to keep a promise, I will." Dillon the diplomat.

"Catch these bastards and put them in jail." She sets her chin and looks like a frontier woman, despite her jeans and Crocs. The wind catches some loose hair.

I set my jaw and pull my Stetson down low over my head. "You can count on that, Ma. They're not going to get away with this. C'mon, Harris, let's get back. I...I'm a little tired, I guess."

My Ma walks with us out to the curb; for a moment, it looks like I'll be staying put because I can't seem to get myself into the passenger's seat. My foot slips off the running board and I nearly fall on my ass to the sidewalk. "You could ride in the back," Harris suggests, a little doubtfully.

"Sure, Harris," I manage through gritted teeth, "like I'm a board or something." The vehicle, like a stubborn horse, seems to buck itself out from under me. I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't just let the two of them take me to the ER when I hear the gears grinding. "Hold the damned thing still and I'll get in just fine."

"You mean, hold still like put it in 'park'?"

I slap a hand to my forehead. "No. Manuals don't have a 'park' setting. Put it into neutral, start it, and hold it there with the brake."

He gulps and I hear the gears grinding again. I look over at my Ma and she's no help at all; she seems to have been overcome with an attack of the giggles. "Got it now," my lab assistant replies humbly. "You sure the truck's what needs steadyin'?"

"I'm dizzy, Harris. It's hard to step correctly when you have double vision."

"Oh, gotcha, boss. I got it all under control."

My truck pitches and bolts as I put my foot on the running board. The front tire barely misses my boot. "You crazy….put it in neutral and LEAVE it there. You nearly ran over my foot!"

"I did. Why'd you move?"

"I didn't move, the truck did!"

"Maybe I'd better drive you boys home," Ma says. "This doesn't look like it's working well."

"Nah, it's okay, Ma Dillon," Harris assures her. "I think I got it now."

I finally fumble my way into the truck and buckle my seat belt. Ma walks around the truck to Harris' side and whispers, "Watch him now. Don't let him talk you into leaving him like this if it gets too bad." She sighs. "He needs a doctor."

"Sure won't! I'll have him call you tomorrow, when he's feeling up to it." We pull away from the curb with a minimum of hassle and Harris concentrates on fighting with the five speed transmission. "We're headed to um ... which hospital now?" His hand hovers over the GPS.

Knocking his hand away, I snarl, ""Not gonna happen. Just take me home, I'll be fine in the morning."

"Ow... sure. But I need to get home ..."

"You could just take us back to the lab---"

"No! I promised your Ma I wouldn't let you work any more tonight. You oughta go home, boss."

"I'm not gonna work on anything," I wheedle, trying to make my voice sound hardier than I feel. "I can probably drive myself from there, it's not far." It's actually clear across town but I'm not going to tell him that. "Your car at headquarters, Harris?"

"Yeah, I can just kinda follow you to make sure you get back okay. I got nothing else goin' on."

I nod tiredly and cross my arms over my chest. "Wake me in twenty minutes."

Harris does just fine until he has to stop at an intersection. The truck grinds gears and then stalls. "Shit. Sorry." He yanks the shift knob and drops it back into gear. The truck shudders away from the stop sign.

"I thought you said you knew how to drive a stick shift." My voice sounds tight and I keep my eyes closed because if he jolts me much more, I'm going to be sick again.

"I...ah...kinda thought you were talking about a bicycle, boss. The principle's similar," he adds hopefully.

"You concentrate on getting us back to work." I pat him on the shoulder in what I hope is an encouraging gesture and then resume my impression of an armadillo…arms curled around stomach, chin down, and Stetson low over eyes.

"Sure thing! Aside from stopping, I got this down."

"Let the clutch out slowly as you're putting on the brake and it won't stall."

"I'm trying." Harris leans forward and chews his lip. The next sign he manages to roll through easily.

"Better." I decide it's easier to have a distraction than to try keeping my misery to myself. "What did you and my Ma talk about while I was listening to the game?" I'm not going to admit to my assistant that I was flat out napping and a herd of buffalo could have stomped through the living room without my noticing.

"Ah, her garden and stuff. I just got some plants my folks put out. She's gonna give me some cuttings. And about like how some herbs heal things." He slows down and carefully pushes the clutch. This time there's no jolt at all and the truck doesn't stall.

"Set the cruise control. You shouldn't need to shift again unless someone stops in front of us and that's not likely this late in the evening."

"Okay…oh, here it is." Harris bites his lip, as though considering whether or not he ought to mention something. "Uh, boss? What are the odds that someone in our own lab might have messed with you?"

I sit up straight and push my Stetson back. "You can't be serious, Harris. Stop watching all those TV shows."

"I am serious," Harris answers, all traces of his accent gone. "Your Ma told me two of our techs like spending way too much time in the genealogy archives asking about your family tree. One of 'em likes looking over the massacre records."

I blink, trying to avoid watching the road. "Why would that matter, though? They're state employees." We both understand the subtext of that statement: _they're family and family doesn't mess with family._

"Your Ma is worried about them," Harris insists. "She doesn't like them approaching her like that."

"Look," I sigh, "My Ma...well, she can be a little overprotective. I'm all she's got left. Nothing happened to me that a good night's sleep won't fix."

"Sure, boss. Sure thing." He blows hair out of his eyes and concentrates on the simple mechanics of mastering the stick shift, but I've known him long enough to know when he won't let go of an idea. Right now he looks put out.

I realize I'm sounding grouchy and ungrateful; I try again. "Harris, we can't start suspecting each other or coworkers. If we do that, the impartiality of the case gets compromised and evidence gets lost or read wrong."

Harris chews and grids and wonders. "Sure, boss. I just gotta wonder, you know. There's a lot wrong with this case. You weren't called in --- neither of us were --- to the crime scene. Karen missed evidence. Karen's Native American, you know, and some pieces in this case seem to have had ritual significance."

"Let's wait to see what the autopsies reveal, huh? If I'm wrong, I'll buy you a couple of cases of Code Red and keep you in Pocky for the rest of the year."

"I'll take that bet!"

"You're on, Harris. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to need to pay that one."

We pull into the garage at headquarters and say our goodbyes. I feel somewhat better by the time we get there and convince Harris that he doesn't need to follow me home. I watch him pull away in a dilapidated piss green Gremlin and then navigate back to my apartment. Rush hour is past so I don't have too many distractions to contend with, but I'm wiped out by the time I pull into my parking space.

When I get in, the cat yowls like I hadn't fed him in a week, but I have kitty's number. I'd bought chicken livers and cut those up for him. They'd been getting up to room temperature; I get them nice and warm in a skillet and then put them in his dish. Mojo would eat his fill then go to sleep. That would prevent him from rearranging photos or sitting on them, both of which were favorite pass times. While I'm waiting for him to settle, I heat water for more tea, shut down most of the lights, and close the curtains. Before opening the manila envelope, I take a few steadying breaths.

Outside I could only hear traffic passing on the highway, with the occasional boom car or truck with engine brakes. I'm used to that; none of those sounds pose a serious threat or distraction. Opening the case file, I sit on the floor and spread each picture out around me in the order in which they were shot. It gives me a better idea of the layout of the crime scene…again, the second best thing to being there. Marrin's notes and copies of the investigators' findings are there, too.

When you see it on TV, crime scenes look nasty enough. In reality, they're a serious bitch. A tiny entry wound can mean a bigger exit wound, and just because the carpet doesn't show much blood … well, wait until you pull it up and look at the padding! What's visible isn't always what's there.

I hope that the rug on which Mrs. Dupree had been laid out in the garden wasn't an heirloom. The rug's a goner; Kat would never be able to get the blood stains out of it and if it was old, any patches to the fabric would be obvious. The husband had initially been assaulted while sitting on a couch in the bedroom upstairs and I am sure the stuffing was soaked. Then there's the canid blood; Captain Marrin said that they didn't have a dog so how did the blood get there? I rubbed my eyes and tried to not look at these people, but look at what happened to them.

_Where does the dog fit in_?

She had her hand clutched at her throat. The blood spatter evidence in other pictures indicates she'd been surprised in the kitchen and then dragged out into the garden. She ran, or staggered, there. There's no pet door, the magnetic kind they can push open which seals behind them. Captain Marrin was right; the Duprees hadn't acquired a pet recently. _Do we have an undiscovered witness, perhaps one of the neighbors walking a dog? Was Mrs. Dupree protecting the dog_? No, that's just plain stupid. DPD isn't _that_ incompetent and they'd contained the scene very quickly. _Keep looking, Dillon, you're missing something._

I wonder about the gash in Mrs. Dupree's neck. It's ragged, as though someone had simply carved at it and done so in haste. There's no aortic spray on the surrounding grass or the blanket. She had to be dead before … wait.

I get my magnifying glass and peer through it as best I can. Whoever held the camera hadn't had hands as steady as they needed to be and the print is slightly blurred. It looks like she's pointing to her throat. The wound is raw and messy…and it's trickling blood.

_No._

That would mean Mrs. Dupree was still alive at the time the photograph was taken; the dead don't bleed. She wouldn't have been able to speak with that awful wound, but she definitely could have been pointing. _Damn it, I'm gonna need the first responders' ambulance reports as well. Kat must_ never _find out about this._

I don't like the thought, but perhaps her killer did something to her neck besides cut it. _We never did get around to cleaning and processing those bits of stone Harris found. Maybe that's where we should start tomorrow._

"Could he have shoved something shoved in her throat? Why would the killer do that?" My knees begin to ache; I don't normally sit on the floor this long. I shift positions and accidentally prod Mojo. He meows at me softly from under the couch. "Sorry."

_Crap. We _need_ Karen's autopsy notes._

Similar photos had not been taken of Mr. Dupree. I make a mental note to ask Harris if he'd found those objects lodged in the trachea or the esophagus and wondered if Karen had noted them on the autopsy at all.

The only existing photo of Mr. Dupree shows him face down in the kitchen, near the door to the garden. A large kitchen knife rests approximately three feet from the body and it seems to have flown out of his outstretched hand. It looks as though it may have blood on the blade. _Did he injure his attacker? _ According to the reports, the blood trail stretched from the bedroom to that area of the house. _I'd bet they attacked him first and he was trying to defend his wife._ I consult the bedroom photo, which shows the blood soaked couch.It looks like he was surprised while reading, poor guy. Shot in the throat, though. It's a wonder he lived long enough to make it downstairs.

_Where are the weapons?_

There should be casings, possibly stray bullets…and that knife should be among the things we're processing.

_It wouldn't be hard to stash something in their throats. Where did I read that?_ No, I didn't _read_ it anywhere. Karen told me once about the Pueblo custom of putting some sort of carved effigy in the body if it is thought that the person might have been a witch. _Witchcraft again. What the hell….? _ I rub my eyes and take a sip of my tea. These murders are causing a great deal of agony. I don't want to go back to Captain Marrin with this information, but I'm going to have to do it and it looks like Karen will have some uncomfortable questions to answer.

My cell phone rings. I debate ignoring it but some nagging feeling of anxiety decides me against it. "Dillon here."

"Ranger Dillon, this is Detective Barnes with DPD. I was called to the scene of an accident out here in Oak Cliff earlier this evening. You might want to come out to this one, sir. The car has been identified as belonging to Karen Begay, your ME. No sign of the driver, but we've got witnesses at the scene who say someone tried to kill her. She ran away or was taken from the scene before anyone could detain her."

I lurch to my feet, stifling another yawn, but my mind is clear and I'm already grabbing for my kit. "Thanks for the call, Barnes. I'll be there as soon as I can." I note the exact location on my GPS and sprint for my truck. I don't think twice about leaving the photos out.

Barreling down the beltway, I dial Karen's home number. It had been a long time since I'd called her there but I figure the situation warrants it. My knuckles are white against the steering wheel by the time someone picks up on the tenth ring. "This better be good, Dillon," she says, sounding sleepy and irritated.

"Are you all right?" I demand.

"Why wouldn't I be? What's going on?"

"DPD found your car in Oak Cliff. It apparently went over a guard rail."

"Oh, my God!" She sounds as though she's about to cry. "I loaned it to Kat this afternoon so she could get her errands done."

"You haven't heard from her at all?"

"No." Karen sniffled. "I-I assumed that she would be with either Porter or you. This is all my fault! Alex, you've got to find her."

My stomach tightened into a painful knot and stayed there. "Don't blame yourself. I shouldn't have let Porter get me so riled that I didn't pay close enough attention to what you were asking." I'd never have allowed it if I had, and we both knew it, but it seems pointless to bring that up now.

"Keep me posted, Dillon. I hope you find her safe."

I call Porter next. "No, squint, she ain't with me," he responds. I could hear feminine giggles in the background and what sounded suspiciously like Porter stifling a snort of laughter. _Porter doesn't laugh. I must be more tired than I thought._ "'wina, cut it out, I'm on the phone! I thought Kat was _your_ responsibility."

"You better meet me out here, then," I tell him grimly.

_Damn it, Kat, what the hell happened to you?_


	10. Interlude 1

**Interlude 1 – Dodge City, Kansas August 14, 1883**

In the small hours of the night a single light flickered to life above the Long Branch. Kitty had tried going to sleep hours before but the heated conversation between herself and Matt preyed on her mind. That their dinner date had been interrupted by yet another brawl had been the last straw.

_He'll never commit, and I can't handle coming behind a badge every...damned...day...for years and years._ "Until he's shot to death," a small part of her conscience niggled but she didn't let herself think about that now. If she did, she'd never do what she knew needed done.

"He'll never learn, so I don't need to stay and try to teach him. It's like talking to a barn wall anyway!" She packed her trunk automatically, with little thought to what went in it or how it landed. By the time she'd finished, the sun had just begun peeking over the horizon and she could smell coffee perking downstairs.

"Maybe I'll go all the way to New Orleans," Kitty mumbled, peering out her window and across the prairie. The town ended abruptly, like an unfinished drawing, at the cattle pens and then petered out into flat brown emptiness. "At least they have trees there."

Sam was already at the bar, polishing glasses. His "Good morning, Miss Kitty" died on his lips when he saw the tight, closed expression on her face. "Wonder what the Marshal did this time," he sighed. "Miss Kitty, wait a minute!" he called, pointing to the bit of lace trailing from the trunk.

"Oh ..." she practically growled. She opened the trunk to cram everything into place while Sam chivalrously turned his face. "You can turn around now, Sam," she said, a smile in her voice in spite of the turmoil in her heart. "I need to get away and I'm leaving on the first stage out of here. Don't tell the Marshal, I'll see to the arrangements myself."

"You sure, Miss Kitty? I can at least get your trunk." He poured her a cup of coffee. "Don't think the Marshal will like that much. You plannin' to come back?"

She sipped her coffee and took a moment to collect her wits. She chose her words carefully but the bitterness spilled over. "At this point, Sam, I don't much care what that -- that walking target thinks!" More quietly she admitted, "I guess I'll be back eventually, but I don't know when. I just need time out of this place."

"I don't think I'll tell him that, Miss. You could use a vacation, that's for sure; it's been dry lately. Go someplace nice a while."

Kitty frowned deeply into her cup, but composed a smile for Sam when glanced questioningly at her.

_Away from_ him. It pulled at her heart to even think that, but it was still true. She'd been waiting for years, seen him shot or otherwise injured --- sometimes nearly fatally --- dozens of times and she couldn't deal with it any more. She'd vowed many times not to go anywhere with him, had even left Dodge completely once but _he_ always drew her back, one way or the other. _Not this time._ She wanted fun and intellectual conversation, not the drunks and the fighting and the death.

"New Orleans seems like a good option," she decided, motioning for Sam to refill her cup. He'd search for her, and he'd look in St. Louis first. New Orleans would be foreign territory for him and it might be weeks before he'd decide to check there. He wouldn't know where to start, either, since she'd never mentioned exactly where her cousins lived or what their names were.

"Heck, a few speak nothing but Creole French. Let's see him interrogate that." The thought gave her a twinge of guilty pleasure and she bit back a laugh.

"Well, I can take care of the Long Branch for you," Sam offered, flustered, "but what am I supposed to tell Doc and Festus? They'll worry too."

That gave her pause. Doc was like a father and Festus a dear old friend. They didn't deserve to worry about her; it had been Matt's screw-up, not theirs. "I'll leave a note," she said. "You can give it to Doc --- just in case --- but tell him he better not tell Matt a damned thing."

He passed her some paper and the stub of a pencil. It had to be short – there wasn't much to write on and not much to say, really --- but it was better than nothing at all. She wished there was more to say, more she could have done, but this happened so fast.

"_Gone to New Orleans to visit family. Can find me there if needed. Sam has the address._"

She signed it and gave it to the bartender. "The address is in my ledgers," she told him. "If something happens, Doc might need that." Kitty didn't know what could possibly call her back to Dodge before she was ready, but she felt a little better providing for that contingency. She swallowed the last bit of her coffee. "What time does the first stage load up, Sam?"

"In about half an hour, Miss Kitty. I can get your trunk if you're set on goin'."

"I am, thank you. I am."

Kitty grabbed her parasol in one hand, the reticulum in the other, and walked down the boardwalk in the direction of the depot. A tiny sliver of sun gilded the horizon and the air was already heavy with the promise of another dusty, muggy day. The loan lamplighter was going about turning the street lamps off. She ducked against a store front until he'd passed and then kept walking.

"It will be this hot in New Orleans, and humid to boot. But that's nothing," she said to herself. The little bit of sun already created mirages ahead on the horizon. There was little else about the horizon to recommend itself. "Matt can stay here and rot for all I care."

She hadn't meant to speak aloud but Sam asked, "Sorry, Miss?"

"Nothing Sam, I'm sorry."

She thought longingly of afternoon lawn parties and evenings spent out on the balcony drinking cold iced tea with sprigs of mint fresh from the garden while the breeze from the Gulf teased away the heat of the day. Her mood softened and she began thinking she would simply enjoy herself rather than leaving to confound Matt.

"I _will_ have fun, for a change."

Sam smiled fondly at her. "I hope you do, Miss Kitty. You deserve some fun."

_Oh!_ She hadn't meant to say that out loud, either, but she smiled warmly at Sam as he brushed a little dust off her trunk. "Should be along shortly! I'm told it's goin' to Topeka first."

Kitty stood at the depot watching the stage hands load her suitcases. Just a few more minutes and she'd be --- "Oh, damn!" she swore, sighting the tall silhouette of the big marshal marching toward her. She'd been hoping to leave Dodge without an argument and that didn't look likely.

"Where do you think you're headed?" Matt asked, his tone dangerous. "You didn't say a thing about leaving town and we didn't finish our discussion last night."

"Yes, we did," she said through tight lips. "I need to get away for a while." she brushed futilely at the skirts of her traveling suit. "I'm sick of the dust and the dirt and the fighting and the cowboys...."

_And you_. What she didn't say hung in the air between them like a storm cloud. "I'm going, Matt."

"How long?" he asked, hat in hand, one boot tip shuffling random patterns in the dust. He knew he couldn't argue her out of it; he understood her reasons but felt powerless to change them. _She knew the way it was when we decided to be together_, he thought. _If she wants to leave, nothing I can do will stop her_.

There was one thing, but it wasn't something Matt was willing to do. The badge would only come off when he got too old to uphold the law...or when someone finally outdrew him. Which would happen first, he couldn't say. Matt didn't think much about the future, and that was part of the problem here.

She set her shoulders, inuring herself to the forlorn figure standing there. "Six months, maybe a year. Maybe more, I don't know." She could sense him thinking of how to keep her here, and she wasn't going to fall for any of it. Not this time, not again. The one thing she wanted, he wouldn't do and they both knew it.

He nodded, once simply. The gesture conveyed much: sorrow, regret, acceptance. "I'll miss you," Matt said. "It won't be the same around here without you."

She couldn't look at the pleading in his blue eyes for long; it was why she was still around now. Instead Kitty gazed down at the dirty planks; she found herself looking back into his face, crumpled with anger and worry, anyway. "Thank you, Matt." She felt like it was the worst, least think she could say but she couldn't give him any further encouragement. _Why couldn't you be more ... eloquent?_

Kitty sighed and stroked Matt's face, rough as it is with beard stubble and wind-abused skin. _He'd gotten dressed without bothering to shave, something he nearly always took time to do. _ "You know I like to get down to New Orleans to see the new fashions. Besides, I'd like to catch up with my cousin Cilla. Last letter I'd had, she was pregnant.

She'd best have had that baby by now!"

Matt pushed his Stetson back and scratched his head. "Can't say as I'd grudge a baby a visit like that, Kitty. But look, be careful. I'd escort you…."

She sighed. "I know you can't come with me. Your job is here. I'll come back. I'm always careful," Kitty told him flippantly, deliberately tossing back one of his own choice phrases at him. He winced and she regretted her sharp tongue. Kitty stood on tiptoe and kissed him soundly on the mouth. "That's the kiss. We'll make up when I get home."

"I guess so. It's dangerous out there…" Matt had started to say, "for a woman alone" but thought the better of it. _Best to end this on a positive note, not put any pressure on her. _"Give your cousin my best." Matt traced his fingers over his lips in an unconscious gesture, a slow smile lighting his face.

"I will, Matt. Look, they've finished loading the stage. I've got to go."

The stage driver hollered to the horses, cracked the reins, and the stage moved out. Kitty didn't look back because she knew if she did, she'd see Matt standing there staring after the stage until it became a dot on the horizon. Instead she tucked her skirts in and tried to get comfortable for the long ride.

She had the stage to herself, for once, during most of the first leg of the journey. Not many people would want to travel in the dust and heat which seemed part and parcel for this time of year, she thought. By the time they reached Wichita, where they would switch out the horses, a fine film of dust covered everything. The grit had gotten past her veil; Kitty could taste it in her teeth. It had turned the lovely rust colored traveling suit into an indeterminate shade of mustard yellow. All she wanted was a bath and a non-moving bed but at least one of those would have to wait until they pulled into Topeka.

The driver picked up one or two travelers at the way stations but none of them troubled her after five minutes of monosyllabic answers to their attempts to get acquainted. She concluded listening to the elderly cattleman and the dapper gambler maundering on about their business in Topeka was a small price to pay for remaining otherwise unmolested.

At Wichita, Kitty excused herself from their determined presence and went in search of tea and lunch. Before she did so, however, she had business of her own to conclude. She asked the ticket vender at the stage depot, "Where can I send a telegram?"

A beefy man with the balding hair streaming sweat in the sweltering heat barely looked up at her and didn't stop his writing as he answered, "Three doors down, miss. Mr. Steele runs the telegram post."

"Thank you, mister." She rewarded him with a tight smile and set off to send Matt a telegram. _It doesn't change anything_, she told herself, denying she missed him. _I just want to let him know I'm all right._

The blindingly hot heat backed off as she ducked into a door, but the heat backed off in the telegraph office. Inside, the office smelled of clean new wood, ink, and paper. Kitty's eyes adjusted quickly and she smiled at the short, earnest man who came to the counter.

"May I help you, miss?"

"I'd like to send a telegram to Dodge City, addressed to the US Marshal there," she replied, fiddling with her reticulum and watching the man's expression.

It didn't change and some inner part of her relaxed; she hadn't been recognized. "No problem." Grinning, he got out a form and pencil for her. Do you need ---" he asked tentatively, not wanting to offend her.

Kitty didn't take offense, knowing that many women regardless of upbringing could still neither read nor write. "No, thank you. I can fill it out." She sweetened the correction with another smile which set the man at ease and he left her alone. Kitty chewed on the end of the pencil and chose her words carefully; she didn't want to give him encouragement but she didn't want to leave him worrying either. Finally she settled on a simple, direct message:

"HAVE REACHED WICHITA SAFELY. ALL WELL. KITTY."

She nodded. _That's enough. _She passed the message to the clerk with a generous tip. He brightened as she turned to leave but she barely heard his call of, "You're welcome, miss!" as she walked the board sidewalk back toward the stage depot. Digging into her reticulum, she checked the time on a small jeweled thing matt had brought home for her from Kansas City a few years back. _An hour and a half until the stage pulls out._ She decided it left enough time to freshen up and grab a decent meal, maybe change her clothes.

Kitty walked away from the depot, knowing that the better class establishments would be well away from the depot and the Deadline, until she found what she was looking for. To her surprise, there was a woman working behind the desk. I'd like to inquire about a bath and a room for a brief time. I just came in on the stage from Dodge City."

The woman looked her over with a shine of sympathy in her eyes. You're dusty enough from that trip, that's sure. We can offer you a room and a bath. I'll have something brought up for you to eat when you've finished and you can stay here until the stage is ready."

The price was more than Kitty would have liked to pay, but she knew it would revive her spirits. She slid the coins cross the desk and the woman rang a small silver bell. Shortly Kitty found herself being led to a small retiring room on the second floor where behind a screen a hip bath full of lavender scented water gently steamed.

It felt like pure heaven after the jolting stage ride and she sighed in bliss. Tension flowed out of her body and Kitty regained her spirit of adventure, especially when she spied the hot coffee which had been brought up to her. It tasted bitter, thick and hot, but it felt good going down.

A chambermaid, a gal not much older than those she employed at the Long Branch but one who had obviously never been anywhere near a saloon, helped fasten her corsets, button up her dress, and fix her hair. Kitty elected to avoid the dining room crowd and had her lunch sent up. Nothing fancy, just cold sandwiches and stew, but it tasted good because she hadn't had to make it herself…and there was no prairie dust or grit in it.

She sighed and gazed out the window. Kitty liked being on her own, but she kept thinking how much more enjoyable an uninterrupted trip would be with Matt. Finally she shook her head. "You're on vacation. You don't owe anyone." She checked her watch one more time, trotted downstairs, and made her way back to the depot.

Sweltering heat waves shimmered up from the boardwalk and she sought the shadows of the platform. Within a few minutes, she had boarded the second stage and settled in for another long, bumpy ride. The Wichita stage promised to be just as miserable as the ride in from Dodge, but Kitty felt somewhat revived after her bath and lunch.

A young man, the single other occupant of the stage, had joined them. Kitty didn't much like how he looked, though he seemed polite enough. He had a swarthy complexion which didn't go well with his straw colored hair and a series of horrendous scars. One ran along the base of his throat, the other across one eye to the jaw line. It was those eyes which bothered her, however. They were the eyes of a killer and they didn't belong to someone so young.

Kitty, nodding politely but giving him no further encouragement, composed herself for a nap. The stage had passed into a wild, lonely stretch of country --- no fences or even a sod house to be seen --- and that made her nervous. For some reason, this leg of the journey didn't have a man riding shotgun. _Probably because there's no gold or bonds to protect this time,_ she reflected bitterly. There'd been talk among the passengers at Wichita about robberies and ambushes occurring more frequently along this strip of badland.

The dubious moral quality of her lone companion didn't help matters any. He kept darting nervous glances in the direction of the driver and further up the road. _It's almost as though he's expecting something. I don't think I want to know what._

Finally the young man cleared his throat and addressed her directly. "Where you from?" he asked, ignoring the crossed arms and prim expression which would have told any observant man with manners that Kitty didn't wish to engage in small talk. "You from Dodge?" he pressed.

"Yes, I rode the stage from Dodge," she responded sharply, hoping that would shut him up.

"It's nice there."

"What?"

"In Dodge. It's a nice town."

_He's really beginning to grate on my nerves._ The last thing Kitty wanted to do was discuss the merits of Dodge City. She wasn't at all in a charitable mood toward the dusty, rowdy cow town. "You've obviously never been to Dodge City," she responded dryly.

"Might be nicer if the law weren't so rough, maybe?"

Kitty's expression hardened. "Is there some reason you'd like it otherwise?"

"Not really. Just heard the law's pretty rough there, that's all." Kitty clenched her jaw and simply nodded. "Heard he's slowing down," the kid continued conversationally, "that he's got hisself a woman and he's more concerned about losin' her than losin' his hide."

"You seem to hear an awful lot!"

The man held up his hands. "No need to be tetchy about it, ma'am! Seems to me though that a lawman with his reputation would be smarter than that. Family's a liability in that line of work."

"Indeed." Kitty didn't like this line of conversation at all. The young man clearly wanted something from her. For all she could tell, he knew who she was.

In an appalling breach of propriety, he reached out and grasped her by the wrist. It felt like a vise closing. "Heard his woman was a redhead, like you." He paused, watching her reaction. "Maybe you're the marshal's woman?"

She tried to pull away and hissed, "Let me go!"

In retrospect, Kitty knew what was coming but at the time she didn't associate the horses' screams with her unwanted fellow passenger's actions. He whistled, high and shrill like a bird of prey, and then suddenly he wasn't there at all. She felt the stage tilt and then her whole world began to heave and tumble. Kitty's head cracked on something hard and she mercifully lost consciousness.

Sound returned and the first thing she heard sent chills down her spine; she knew that sound. _Comanche war whoop. _Kitty didn't move but kept her ears alert as she tried to identify the purpose of the wreck. As the bandits got closer, she realized they were speaking English.

"…weren't supposed to kill her!" someone shouted angrily. "We needed her as a hostage."

The answering voice sounded cold, almost indifferent. "It'll bring that marshal out after us all the same. He'll come looking for her and when he finds the body, he'll make mistakes. Then" the chuckle belonged to a madman and sent an involuntary chill down Kitty's spine "I'll kill him."

Barely breathing, she held perfectly still. This couldn't be happening, but it was. Her mind raced with a dozen schemes to escape. None of them would work. Finally, Kitty decided her best hope of surviving would be to lie where she'd fallen and continue the ruse of being dead. She could worry about survival in this hostile land and rescue later; right now, she just needed to remain alive and unnoticed.

Not for the first time, she wished she had been taking this trip with Matt. _If Matt were here, he'd chase these scavenges off. _She wanted to sigh but didn't dare. Matt _wasn't_ here and that was her doing. In fact, the telegram she'd sent pretty much assured that he wouldn't start looking for her or the stage until someone informed him it had never made it to Topeka…and that could take weeks since there'd been no gold shipments or bonds involved.

_I did this…to myself._ The thought made her want to weep.

Whoever had waylaid the stage didn't spend much time digging through the wreckage. Their goal seemed to have been achieved with Kitty's apparent death.

"Shouldn't we do the decent thing and bury her?" _That _voice she recognized as belonging to the young man who had boarded the stage with her. She felt grateful she'd misjudged to the extent that he still had some modicum of humanity left in his heart.

_But I don't want them doing that. They'll either bury me alive or discover that I didn't die in the wreck and then I'll be a prisoner._ Kitty couldn't suppress a shudder at that thought; these men would abuse her badly before Matt came to the rescue. _And then he might not even want me back. Hell, he might not want me back anyway after the way I behaved._ She'd left before and sometimes she'd even left mad at him, but she'd never left without giving a definite date for her return. Matt had known what that meant; she'd seen it in his eyes as she boarded the stage.

"We need that body. What do you think?"

"No." Again, that same cold voice. "We don't desecrate the dead. To do so would be to stoop to the white man's level." Someone reached down and, to Kitty's horror, plucked the cameo Matt had given her from her neck. That same someone used a dirty Bowie knife to saw off one of her tresses. "This should be evidence enough. He'll come."

Frustration and righteous anger burned her. "Go ahead, take what's mine, you…." She bit down on her muttering because she feared she'd called attention to herself. Kitty counted herself fortunate that the storm chose that moment to break. Thunder rumbled like the wrath of God and a blinding flash heralded the opening of the heavens as cold rain sluiced down upon her. Before long it was punctuated by a chilling wind and the occasional piece of button sized hail.

"Let's get out of here!"

When she could be certain her assailants had gone, Kitty took the chance to cry. She wept hard for a long time and then, curled in the remains of the stage, she fell asleep.

_He'll come for me. He will!_


End file.
